Breaking
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Room with a Rack transcript and fill-in.


This is definitely for Leviathan, who wrote quite a few lines of this, encouraged me from the inception and never let me give up on it. A completely unworthy offering, but there it is.

And thanks to Allthinky for the detailed and truly amazing beta.

* * *

Scene One

Shaking.

Someone's shaking him awake.

"Aw, man… get a job in the…"

It's irritating, and if he were a cussin' man he'd say it was damned irritating. All he wants to do is relax into the warmth of the bed, without this shaking. And his wrists hurt. And it's cold. And Mr. Nobel-Prize is dead from the torture…

_What?_

He snaps to muzzy wakefulness in an instant, half-drugged memory flooding back like nightmare. The dungeon. The shackles, _oh man,_ Kelly being shackled to… a medieval wheel? Was it _(please, please)_ a hallucination?

…His mind can't focus, and he forces his eyes open… A swaying roof. Lying on his back. Strobing blue lights._ Ambulance._

He gets his elbows under him, looks around. It's dark. Night, relieved by a dim fluorescent bulb in the roof and the flashing blue. White-painted metal walls. There's a big guy, black hair, white uniform of an orderly, by his side, close enough to touch, but he's not looking at him, he's hanging up an IV bag next to a figure obscured by the man's broad back…

Scotty half-slides, half-falls out of the stretcher. "Hey! Senor! No!" the orderly shouts, but he ignores him. He's been unconscious for a while, he guesses, and he has to _see,_ has to_ know._

Well, he sees all right. The pale body is lying face-down, stripped to the waist, Kelly's eyes closed in blessed unconsciousness. In the dim light, his back, white and surreal in the strobing light, is ruined, split with scores of black, bloody welts, the tattered skin in shreds.

Scotty stares, stunned.

"Senor…" the orderly says, in the bossy tone of ambulance personnel.

Scotty looks at him and he falls silent. "Just a minute," he says, to pacify the man, and reaches out to pat Kelly's bare shoulder, but the instant his hand makes contact, there's a violent flinch.

And now he sees it: the swelling in the shoulder joints, everywhere cartilage meets bone, knees now puffed up as thick as the calves, elbows ballooned, wrists mangled; Scotty's limbs turn to water as it hits him, the full impact of what has been done to Kelly. "Oh, man…" he whispers. He looks his partner up and down, appalled, and the only terms that come to his paralyzed mind are the classical: _To break a man upon the wheel._

He allows the orderly to manhandle him back into his own stretcher. He's feeling woozy, for some reason, stomach churning. Must have got hit on the head or something.

_You'll be okay, Kel. We're gonna get through this. I promise you, _is his last thought before he drifts off.

* * *

Scene Two

"I'm sorry, I can't tell. I'm sorry, I can't tell. I'm sorry! I can't tell!"

Andrea is arrested outside Room 209 by the scream. It's terrifying, the cry of a man in the grip of unbearable torment. That poor Mr. Robinson! Placing her tray on the vinyl-covered floor, she turns and gently pushes open the door of the two agents' room.

As she does, she notices the screaming has stopped. There's a male voice murmuring, and she wonders if Mr. Robinson is talking in his sleep. Cautiously, she peeks round the door, so as not to disturb the man if he has fallen into a more restful...

And she smiles.

The other agent, the colored guy …Mr. Scott… has moved to sit on the bed next to Mr. Robinson. In his nightmare-induced terror, the man has curled himself into a fetal position facing the other agent, bandaged head in his lap, one arm flung across his knees, the white hand fisted in the striped blue pajama bottoms. The dark agent is bending over him with a hand on his shoulder, his other hand smoothing back the poor man's hair – or what little of it is visible underneath the bandages. "It's all right now, Kel. We're here. You're here. It's over, right?" he keeps murmuring softly, and the love in his voice makes her shiver, just a little. "You're here now, you're safe, we're safe, we're gonna be fine, just fine and dandy, you know that, don'tcha? You just hang loose, now, you wanna go back to sleep, go right ahead, and if any more pizza nightmares show up, I'll throw a pepperoni at 'em. Maybe some chili peppers, too…"

And Mr. Robinson's eyes are drifting shut, the terrible anguish smoothed from his face, and Andrea slips her head silently out.

As she picks her tray up, she sighs; Robinson's suffering brings back sad memories of Agent Carstairs, the skinny redhead with the electrical burns on his temples, screaming alone in the night, transferred straight from her floor to a long-term care facility. For the hundredth time, Andrea wonders whether she could have done more for the poor man. She did try to be there whenever the agent had a nightmare, but she can't be on shift all the time… Perhaps he was just too far gone, she thinks. And yet, she wonders if the man might have been saved from institutionalization if he'd had someone as devoted to him as Robinson's partner.

She supposes she'll never know.

* * *

Scene Three

"How is he doing, Doctor?"

Norman Binores had to look down at his desk for a long moment before looking up to face Mr. Anderson with his report. He really didn't like being in this position, on this case. It wasn't Kelly Robinson himself; the man was a fighter, and Binores had nothing but admiration for his spunk. No, it was this job that played fast and loose with the human psyche that was distasteful to him. The way it was being handled, with one-way glass and video surveillance, was unethical and inhuman, and the coldness with which the Department boss appeared to take this kind of damage in stride had imbued him with a permanent dislike of the man.

Unfortunately, he was accountable to him, and fortunately – through none of Anderson's doing, or Norman's, come to that – he actually had some good to report.

"Better than could be expected, to be honest, given that the bandages aren't even off yet," Norman said briskly. "Typical shell-shock, of course – night terrors, disorientation, nerves, highly strung, et cetera – but given that it's only been two weeks, I wouldn't have expected him to be anything more than a shaking wreck. And yet, his recovery is progressing better than I could have dared to hope for." He nodded approvingly. "The one thing he really has going for him is his partner."

Norman did not like the cool stare that came to rest upon him. "Explain that to me, Doctor."

"Well…" He wasn't sure what came under the aegis of doctor-patient confidentiality when everyone was under surveillance all the time. Hell, there was a security camera in his own office… "You know how your Department boys are – human contact's a weakness, love is a weakness – I don't think it's too healthy in the best of circumstances, and then something like this gets done to them and they crash and burn. No-one to catch them when they fall. I've seen it time and time again, solitary men tearing themselves up from the inside…" He stifled a sigh.  
"But this pair are the exception. It's clear there's real affection between them, and its value is…"

The boss looked piercingly at him, and gestured to the screen behind Binores. "Is this the video feed?"

"Yes, but…"

Anderson strode past him, reaching for the button and flipping it on.

The screen blipped, showing a horizontal white line before the monitor resolved into a black-and-white image of Robinson and Scott's hospital room. Two men, one dark-skinned, one light, the former in pajamas, the latter in a dressing-gown, were sitting on a bed, playing—chess? There was the checkered board, but the items on it weren't like any chess pieces he'd ever seen. A pair of salt and pepper shakers, a paper cup, a wristwatch, a man's ring, a wad of cotton, a roll of bandages… "What on earth?" Anderson muttered.

Norman grinned broadly. "One of their games. Seen 'em play it before." His amused eyes rested on his frowning superior. "Fantasy chess."

Anderson reached around Binores and flicked on the dial that transferred sound.

"…Check." Robinson, still leaning heavily on the pillows, moved the ring to cover the cotton ball.

"Check what?" Scott stuffed the ball into the ring.

"Check, please." Robinson placed the salt-shaker over the pepper-shaker.

"Chinese checkers." Scott upended the cup over the two shakers.

"Check, check… Check-mate." Robinson unwound the bandage and wrapped the cup carefully in it, salt, pepper and all.

Scott leaned back, smiling with satisfaction at having been 'beaten'. "Touché."

Robinson grinned. "Ole."

"Ixnay." Scott chuffed a gentle laugh.

"Cabriolet."

"Bombay."

"Anyway."

"Naysay."

"Gainsay."

"Risqué."

The two had been giggling harder and harder, and now they broke up, laughing, catching each other's eye and bursting into renewed gales of merriment.

Anderson frowned at Binores in perplexity. "What the hell is that?_ Folie a deux?"_ He pronounced it 'foley'.

Binores smiled at the two men with a kind of proprietary pride. "It's their own way of dealing with stress. Phatic communion par excellence."

"I'm not familiar with the term."

"Just a fancy way of saying 'small talk'. Basically, it's conversation that means nothing, doesn't impart information, but serves the function of reassuring the speakers that all's well, and reaffirming the relationship." Binores nodded to the men on the screen, laughing like two little boys. "I'm willing to guess these two have been at it a long time – real experts. It sure is coming in handy now."

Norman's head jerked up as, on the monitor, the door to the room slammed open with a tinny bang. Robinson bolted up off the bed so violently that he upended the chessboard, sending the pieces clattering to the floor. Nurse Jenkins came into the frame, saying, "Sorry! The door slipped!" to Scott's murderous glare. Meanwhile, Robinson had retreated clumsily backwards, backed himself into a corner, and slid to the floor, shaking, hands folded protectively over his chest.

"Don't worry about it," Scott muttered over his shoulder to the startled nurse as he slid off the bed and made a beeline for the man cowering the corner, crouching to sit by him, knees drawn up, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "Hey, hey. 's okay, Kel, 's okay, some people get tired of the bed, want a change of scene, right? Right, right, you just sit wherever you want. I was gettin' tired of the bed anyway. And Jenny's not ticked off, are ya, Jenny? No, see?" Robinson was trembling so badly it was visible even on the small screen. Norman grimaced, but Scott just moved into his line of sight, reaching out to touch the bandaged head, his voice dropping into a softer register. "It kinda came back to you again, huh? Yeah, I can see it did. It's okay, man, you're right here, no weirdness going on anywhere. See where we are, Kelly? Hospital room, yeah, we're safe in hospital, Duke, I mean, sure it's not the greatest place at all, matter of fact, they ought to fire their interior designer, I'm thinkin', I mean, this white on white is just no good at all, but hey, it's better than Early Medieval Torture Chamber, at least I'll give them that. I mean, y'know, sure I slept through the movie and all, but even I like it better without the rack and thumbscrew, and…"

Binores looked on as, slowly, by degrees, in response to the gentle stream of words and the comforting touch, Robinson's trembling quieted, the man taking a series of deep, shaky breaths, the rigid set of his jaw relaxing, his hand coming up to grip Scott's forearm; Scott laid his other hand over the white one and shifted to sit next to Kelly again, the bandaged head dropping sideways to rest on his shoulder. The two men sat together in the corner for a while, before Kelly Robinson's head came up, his eyes his own again, the panic attack gone, replaced by shaky, wretched grief. "S—Scotty," he said, swallowing convulsively.

"Yeah, Kel?" murmured Scott.

"Why am I such a coward? I'm a wreck…"

"What _I_ wanna know, Jack," Scott's voice sharpened, annoyed, and Norman held his breath, "is what's with this present simple you keep using."

Robinson looked up at him, surprised out of his funk. "Huh?"

Norman suddenly saw where this was going, even as Anderson blinked at the apparent nonsequitur. "I mean, man," Scott told him, "you need to be using the present continuous. Present continuous indicates a temporary condition, like something happen-_ing_, you know, right now. And right now, you're recover-_ing_ from…" the pause was infinitesimal, "torture, you're still heal-_ing_, you're havin' a crummy time, you're feeling funky, your nerves are jangling, and you're reacting the way you are. It's not a permanent condition, Holmes! Present simple denotes a permanent condition. You oughta say, 'I'm _feeling_ this way,' not, 'I _am_ this way'!" He looked down at Robinson. "You dig?"

The hands still clutched at Scott like a lifeline, but the voice, when Robinson spoke, was steadier, and definitely calmer. "Con… continuous. 'kay… Noah Webster."

"Attaboy." Scott smiled, lightly patting Robinson's bandaged forearm. "So you're scared of every little thing right now. Who wouldn't be? You think your amazing, wonderful partner wouldn't be blowing a gasket every time something went bump in the night, if he'd been through what you've been through?"

"Amazing and wonderful?" Robinson repeated, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.

Scott tsked. "I thought in your weakened condition, I could get that past ya!"

"Weakened, huh?" His tone ironic, amused, Robinson looked up at Scott. "Amazing and wonderful. Nice try, Jack." His expression was hard to see, but judging by the speed at which Scott looked away, Norman could tell he could see something in Robinson's face that embarrassed him. "Sorry."

"Willya quit with the apologizing? I mean, y'know, you got the right to be jumpy, but you just make life complicated by feeling bad _about_ getting jumpy, thinking it's permanent, and then callin' yourself names. That just gives us two problems instead of one, Jack."

The injured man swallowed beneath his bandages. "I just wish I wasn't such a…"

"Aw, man, you're making me repeat myself. Calling yourself names, I mean, what kind of sense does that make? You're not 'such an' _anything_ present simple. Man, your bandages ain't even off! I know you wanna be back leaping tall buildings in a single bound, but a broken leg takes time to heal, why should your nerves be any different? Huh, Einstein?" Scott gave his partner a little pat. "You're just feel-_ing_ scared of every little thing, and jumpy as a jackrabbit, which I already explained you had every right to be, you know, being tortured half to death and all. You do remember Mr. Nobel-Prize actually _died _when they did to him the exact same thing they did to you, huh? Or were you out buying the popcorn and missed that part?"

Binores jumped when Anderson reached past him and flipped the switch for the sound off. "Sorry, doc, but you don't have top secret clearance. I can give you some information, but if they should give away…"

"I understand." Binores didn't need to hear the rest of the exemplary session, anyway: it was all right there on the screen, Robinson's improved posture, his half-smile, the grudging acceptance in his expression, the way he relaxed in response to Scott's gentle teasing and reassuring touch. It was important he get this man to understand what he wanted to say, so he spoke quickly. "The only thing that allows me to make a prognosis of complete recovery for Kelly Robinson is the presence of his partner."

"Really." Anderson's piercing stare was positively unnerving. "So with his partner's presence, he could soon be back to normal, as strong as he was before the…incident?"

"Well, not because of his presence _per se,"_ Binores felt compelled to explain, "it's more because of what he's doing for him round the clock, whenever he needs it. He's giving him physical support, healthy, affectionate touching, to remind him that physical contact need not be painful—and he's providing a sympathetic listening ear, acknowledging Robinson's condition, not minimizing his suffering, just telling him it's all right to feel the way he does. The value of those two things is incalculable, and, as you can imagine, very difficult to prescribe or provide in a medical setting."

"The doctors say he should be physically up to par in about another month," Anderson replied. "Do you think, with Scott's help, he might get over what occurred in that amount of time?"

"Psychology isn't an exact science," Binores frowned at Anderson. "I wouldn't have given a plugged nickel for his chances psychologically when he came in here. But with what his partner's doing for him…" he looked up at the screen, where the two men were now upright, mock-bowing, waving one another 'After-You-No-After-_You'_ towards the bed, each trying to outdo the other with goofy gestures… "His recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. _Very_ cautiously, I'd say it's possible, maybe even likely – but it depends on your definition of 'over it'."

"But if Scott keeps on like that, you'd say there's a possibility…perhaps even a probability… that he could recover within a month?"

Binores looked at the Department boss sharply, and schooled his tone to something a little less like insubordination before he spoke again. "What are you driving at, Mr. Anderson?" He had to grit his teeth to keep himself from shouting. "You're not planning to send him on another mission, are you? Because he – even with everything Scott can give him, that can only speed the process so much. I wouldn't recommend any such thing."

"No, no," Anderson said dismissively. "Not at all." The tall man turned to go. "I merely need to factor it into the Department's plans."

Binores watched the man striding out of the room, and turned back into his room, unable to quell a growing sense of unease.

* * *

Scene Four

"I _WILL NOT!"_

"Dr. Binores—"

"I am not, I am never doing anything of the kind! I'm not doing anything so—so unprofessional, so unethical, so—_diabolical_—"

"The Department—"

"The Department can go hang! I'm not prostituting my professional ethics for your warped idea of political expediency!"

"It's just for a—"

"I said _no."_ The rotund little man drew himself up to what little full height he had.

Benedict Sanford, Chief of Psychiatry at the Department facility in Madrid, watched Norman Binores' tantrum more in amusement that anything else. Who would have thought this little yes-man would develop a backbone, anyway? "You must understand that the circumstances…"

Binores glared up at Benedict. "Do you know, _do you_ _know_ how many patients I've lost to mental institutions? Do you have any idea what it costs me to get them in here after the torturers get done with them… and lose them, one after the other? Now this guy is finally in here with a chance, a fighting chance, and we both know what's the cause of that, and you want me to take that away—" He shook his head. "I am not doing this. I'll fight you all the way. If you try to make me do it…"

Benedict shrugged. "All right, if you feel that strongly about it, we can take Robinson off your patient list, effective immediately."

The doctor whirled, pacing the room furiously. "Are you going to try and make someone else do it? Because so help me, if you do, I'll go and tell his partner. I'll sabotage your warped little plan."

"How's your daughter, Binores?"

The short man stopped dead, turned to him slowly. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

"I just asked how she was."

"You'd withhold—"

Benedict's voice was mild. "Who said anything about withholding anything? She's getting the best of care. I follow up on her, you know. Dr. Adler even said she might have a normal life someday, a husband, children. I just asked how she was, that's all."

Binores' blue eyes bored into Benedict's for a moment. "You win," he grated. "But I won't be held responsible."

"You won't have to," Ben said evenly. "I'll arrange everything. And Binores…" he ignored the impotent outrage emanating from the man in front of him, "you try to go behind my back, I'll know. You try to sabotage this, I'll know."

"I understand."

"Not a word of this to Anderson. You talk to him, you act like you don't know a thing."

Binores blinked. "But he ordered it."

"Even so. As far as he's concerned, you're not in on it. You just don't mention it."

Benedict could see the light of understanding dawn in Binores' eyes. "You want to cover your tracks, don't you? Don't want him knowing you let the lowly subordinate in on the Master-Plan. Might even breach _security."_ He spat the word. "Or is it that you don't want him knowing I refused to do it? Is that it?"

Benedict felt a jolt of rage, but he kept his face bland. _You insubordinate little upstart. You owe us everything. Why, if it wasn't for the Department, your precious little girl would be rotting in some institution…_"I just want the best for everyone concerned." He didn't quite stress the 'everyone', but then he didn't need to.

The little man bowed. "Your wish is my command," he spat. "I'm just a whore, after all. Kiss my medical ethics goodbye." Shaking his head, he left the room quickly, shoulders slumped, door swinging wide behind him.

Benedict took a deep breath. Well, who would have thought it? Good thing he'd had that ace up his sleeve. That kind of troublemaker could be tricky unless you knew how to handle him.

* * *

Scene Five

Benedict walked softly down the corridor in deference to the lateness of the hour. The wall clock in the nurses' station read 2:23 AM. A perfect time to catch Scott with his defenses down. He counted off the rooms, but even if he hadn't known the number, 209 wasn't hard to find. Ben just followed the screams.

By the time he arrived, the screaming had quieted down. He stood at the door to the room, and pushed it slightly ajar with the back of his hand. At the scene unfolding before him, he nodded once, now even more certain that he was doing the right thing.

Scott was seated on Robinson's bed, the injured agent practically in his lap; in the dimness, Benedict managed to make out the man's bandaged head resting on Scott's chest, gauze-swathed arms wrapped around himself, one of Scott's dark hands splayed against Robinson's shoulder, gathering him close, the other stroking the hair that tufted up through the bandages. Robinson's harsh breathing scraped through the darkness, then he said something unintelligible in a broken voice. As Ben listened, Scott murmured, "Hey, Jack, if I'd been on the Five-Minute Basketball Scholarship, I'd be making like an opera singer too!"

Robinson slurred something into his partner's pajamas. Ben couldn't make it out, but he did hear Scott's answer. "What, you worried the nurses won't get their beauty sleep? You scream all you want, Hobey! You've earned it!"

Another unintelligible something from Robinson, and Scott replied. "Guess I'll have to prove it to ya. This is a hospi—tal! Place for the recoverin', the sick and wounded! And you and me, man, we're the sick and wounded! Which means you can let your vocal talents out any time you want! Observe and learn, my man!" He took a huge breath and burst out at the top of his lungs, "O Sole Mio-o-o-o-o-o…!"

Ben flinched at the tuneless yowling, but Robinson let out a chuckle. "Pipe down, Jack, you'll wake the chickens all the way from here to Napoli…"

"Che Belle É-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é-é…"

"I dig, I dig…"

"O Sole Mio-o-o… Come on, my fine Neapolitan friend, join in the chorus!"

The slight panic made Robinson's voice shake. "It's gotta be against the rules!"

Scott hitched him up in his arms and leaned in closer, Ben having to strain to hear his soft murmur. "Herman, this is the one time I think we get to break all the rules we want…"

And Robinson's tormented face looked up at his partner, grinned resolutely, gripped Scott as tightly as he could with his savaged joints, took a breath and joined him in a two-part harmony as the nurses on the floor started to appear in ones and twos, fingers in their ears and a mystified expression on their faces.

Several minutes later, when the impromptu Neapolitan concert had drawn to a close and Ben had shooed the nurses away, he peered into the room again. Now would be an excellent time to take Scott aside, with the additional advantage of the lack of sleep, and talk to him…

…except for the fact that he and Robinson had fallen asleep holding one another, for all the world like a pair of kindergarteners, face-to-face in the narrow bed. Robinson had his hand bunched in Scott's pajama shirt, forehead nudging his chest; Scott's cheek nestled in the tuft of hair on the top of the bandaged head, one hand curled around Robinson's arm.

And from the sappy smile on Robinson's face, it didn't seem like Ben could count on another nightmare anytime soon, either.

_Kooks. _He gritted his teeth and walked off down the corridor.

* * *

Scene Six

It was ten o'clock in the morning when Benedict finally managed to corner Scott alone, while Robinson was off at his therapy session. A discreet rap on the open door, and Scott was standing respectfully. "Hi, doc! Welcome to our humble abode. Be it ever so simple, there's no place like… hospital!" The man walked over to him, gesturing to a chair. "Be seated and regale me with the wonders of your medical knowledge!"

Benedict gave the man a businesslike handshake, remaining where he was. "Good morning."

"What can I do for you this fine morning? A little coffee, a little conversation?" He looked around. "We're all out of Chateaubriand, but I can offer you a very fine 1965 Eau de Robinet…"

"Agent Scott."

The cheerful façade dropped suddenly, replaced by an alert seriousness that unnerved Benedict slightly. "Yeah?"

Affecting an air of confident superiority, Benedict strode into the room, cutting across Scott, sitting in one of the two hard chairs by the window, making himself at home. "Please be seated, Agent Scott."

The man lowered himself into the small seat opposite him, and Benedict straightened. "I have some medical instructions. About your partner," he rapped out. "It's come to our attention that your actions – however well-meaning they may be – may be interfering with his recovery."

He'd never seen a Negro go pale before; the refined features went suddenly gray. Scott said no word, only nodded.

Oh, this was going to be so easy. "He..." He allowed himself to hesitate for a moment, as though unsure of how to phrase his words. "During our sessions, we…noticed a few things."

"What kind of things?"

"Well." Benedict looked away delicately to build suspense, watching the man fidget in his seat. Appearing to come to a decision, Ben regarded Scotty seriously. "Agent Scott, I'm not accusing you of deliberately sabotaging his recovery. I'm sure you have the best of intentions. But we in the medical profession know that good intentions are not enough. Sometimes they can do untold damage."

Scott nodded vigorously, dark hands clenching in his pajama-clad lap. "Clue me in, Doc, you're making me nervous."

"There are doctor's orders that must be followed for Agent Robinson's mental health..." Scott leaned forward in his seat. "The issue, what's at stake, as I'm sure you've realized, is his…" he cleared his throat, "his manhood. He is in an extremely fragile state right now. You must have noticed that. And there are two things which might set him back considerably - might even cause his psyche to _warp..."_

The agent was on the edge of his seat, lips slightly parted. A fair amount of stress in there, Benedict thought, as well. All to the good.

"The first is this: I must insist that you not touch him."

"I beg your pardon?"

Benedict nodded with his most professional expression. "Usually, touch is considered positive in most cases, but what Mr. Robinson has been through is an exception. With his mind the way it is ... and his courage broken ... well, in his worst moments he's going to be – you're familiar with Freud, aren't you, Scott? The torture, in some ways, reduced him to pure Id. In order to rebuild ego function, as a healthy man, he needs the comfort of a woman's touch. You're certainly no father figure to him, are you?" Scott just frowned, and Ben cleared his throat delicately. "If he received comfort - touching, embracing – from you, instead of from a woman... it might be... dangerous for him. He might never again be the man he once was. I can't be more specific, but I'm sure you understand the ramifications..."

Scott stared at him in disbelief as the implication sank in. "What are you saying? That can't be right!"

Ben let his eyes flash, but his voice was cold. "You have a Doctorate with a concentration on treating shell-shock, Agent Scott? Battle fatigue?"

The agent bit the inside of his lip. "I… I know you're the expert, but…"

"I am aiming to safeguard his _manhood,_ and I'm not about to let anyone endanger it. Not only that, you putting your hands all over him," he said with slight disgust, "poses a threat to his courage. To his self-reliance. To his mental health. The Department wants him back the way he was," he let disappointment creep into his tone, "and I was under the impression that you did, as well."

Scott shook his head. "'Course I do. I just… Not touch him at _all?"_

"Absolutely not. He needs to regain his own physical integrity." It was fortunate that the black man was too distressed to over-analyze what Benedict was saying. "Don't pat him on the shoulder, don't take him by the hand, don't pet his head, and above all, don't embrace him."

"But…" an abortive motion of the dark hands. "Sorry, but you're sure?" The confused distress in the agent's face was more eloquent than the halting words.

Benedict looked blandly at Scott. "I do understand how you feel, Agent Scott. Coming out of that dungeon, knowing Robinson had been tortured while you slept through the whole thing. Now, watching the result, understanding his injuries, while you got out of it without a scratch." He waited for a reaction until he saw the convulsive bob of the man's Adam's apple. Perhaps fooled by his strong façade, the Department hadn't deemed it necessary to give this man therapy; more fools they. Easier for Ben, though. "If you want the damage undone, you must follow my instructions precisely, Agent Scott."

"I … I didn't even think about it – it seems to help him," Scott murmured, tongue darting over his lips, "and…"

Benedict pounced gratefully on the opening. "You mean it helps _you_." He gave a slight, impersonal smile. "It's perfectly understandable. Very human. But _Robinson_ is the one who was tortured. It's what _he_ needs that matters. If you don't want to set back his treatment, you must take care not to infantilize him."

"Sure. Sure. Of _course_." Scott's gaze was distressed, confusion rising. "But, but I gotta—there's doctor's orders for an ointment for his back, and he can't reach his knees yet…"

"If you _must_ touch him," Benedict said with disdain, "be impersonal, like a doctor. Surely, as his trainer, you are able to make your touch clinical. None of this," he pursed his lips, _"petting._ You can't use him for your own gratification."

The shocked hurt in Scott's expression reassured him that he was on the right track. "Okay," the man said miserably. "You think I, uh, you think I already hurt him?"

"Oh, I'm sure any damage can be undone if you follow doctor's orders," said Benedict dismissively, keeping it deliberately vague so as to ensure the man's cooperation. "And there's another thing…" He waited for the nod. "I must insist that you avoid any and all mention of anything negative. Do not acknowledge in any way that he went through a terrible experience. What he needs from you now is to be _positive."_

Scott frowned. "I thought affirmation…"

"Really, Mr. Scott." Benedict leaned slightly into Scott's zone of comfort, and pitched his voice low. "These faddish new ideas are all very well for pop psychology magazines, but I am a professional. I mean to build Robinson up, not let him wallow in negative emotions!"

The agent's frown deepened. "Build him up," he repeated. "Don't touch him. Don't let him wallow."

"Yes," Benedict folded his arms impassively as he issued his instructions, choosing his tone and his words carefully, his official demeanor calculated to remind Scott that the full weight of the Government stood behind him. "If he appears weak or indecisive, ignore it. If he has a panic attack, act as though everything is normal; pretend that you don't see it. As far as you are concerned, it is not happening."

The man's automatic, obedient nod was nonetheless tentative, doubtful. "Well, I guess I can – that's really not gonna be easy." Damn that intelligence, anyway.

But Ben wasn't a psychologist with thirty years of experience for nothing. He confronted the uncertain regard with the voice of authority. "If Robinson had suffered less, if you were not government agents, this sentimentality would be forgivable, but Robinson has sustained quite enough damage already from amateur bumbling. It's a professional imperative that you treat him as if he was all right, Agent Scott, because he's got enough to deal with without you treating him like he isn't." He let an encouraging note seep into his voice. "The more you ignore his panic attacks, the more strength you give _him_ to ignore them – to begin to realize that he needn't _indulge_ himself."

Scott bristled. "Uh, with all due respect, sir, he's doing his best. I really don't think he can help the attacks. Those guys really did a number on…"

Benedict quelled the defiance with a glare. "No doubt it would ease your conscience to coddle him," he rapped out, seeing Scott flinch. "But as his physician, it is my concern to restore him to the man he once was. The most damaging thing for Agent Robinson is for you to make him dependent, out of misplaced overprotectiveness." He waited for the slow acknowledgement in the troubled eyes, and rapped out, "He _must_ stand straight again. I will not allow you to make a weakling out of him."

A reluctant nod, unwilling comprehension. The dark hands twisted, helplessly.

Ben continued relentlessly. "Ignoring his symptoms will be to his benefit. You'll be reassuring him that you perceive him as normal, as a regular man. …I'm assuming that you don't see him as less than a man?"

The indignation blazed from the brown eyes, but the man's voice was surprisingly mild. "Naw, never. Of course not."

"Then don't treat him like a child who has to be babied. Invite him to parties, take him out when he's released. Parties are good, take him out of himself, lots of people around for support. Don't let him brood. The last thing he needs is someone treating him as though he's incompetent."

"He's not incompetent."

"Then don't _treat_ him as such. His recovery depends on you to give him what he needs, not what either of you want. You may not have managed to protect him from the torture, Agent Scott, but it's not too late. Don't fail him now. Have I made myself clear?"

There was a murmur from Scott, hardly intelligible. "Yessir."

Pretending not to see the haunted, stricken look on the dark face, Benedict rose, nodded approvingly. "I'm counting on you to do your duty, Agent Scott, and to get our boy back on his feet. Good day."

Benedict strode purposefully from the room, congratulating himself on a job well done. He supposed he ought to feel guilty for setting back the man's recovery a few weeks, but what was that compared to the future of the nation? Besides, he'd tell Scott everything, eventually, and Robinson would improve. And Anderson had promised to grant the man a vacation. Really, all things considered, Benedict thought, the agents ought to thank him.

* * *

Scene Seven

Scotty lay awake in the dark, cold and sick at heart, listening to the rasp of Kelly's breathing. He had to be even more careful tonight about telling when the nightmare would start; he had to put a stop to it before it got really bad, since he couldn't give Kel something to hold onto. Man, that stuck in his craw. But he was no trauma-psychology major, and he certainly wouldn't take the risk of letting Kelly down out of his own selfishness. Even the doc had seen it, that he hadn't lived up to his responsibility. He hadn't managed to catch his partner this time, and Kel had taken a bad fall. He'd fix it, though. He'd follow doctor's orders, and Kelly'd be back to normal again…

"I am sorry, I can't tell." His partner's voice sounded quiet and pained, rising gradually in the silent night. "I—am—_sorry_... I can't tell."

Scotty jerked to wakefulness; he must have dozed off. "Kel," he called across the room, "it's just a dream. Just a dream."

Thank heaven, the scream did not come. Scotty flipped over in bed in time to look over at Kelly, completely hidden under the sheets. "Oh, man," his partner muttered, low and harrowed. "Oh, man, it was sumpn'."

"Yeah," sighed Scotty. He couldn't even see how Kelly was doing, wrapped up like a mummy like that, but that quiet, slurred tone... He frowned, tongue darting over dry lips, stifling the urge to go to him, to help ease the pain in that too-quiet voice, just sit by him and…_ No doubt it would ease your conscience to coddle him._ "Yeah, I heard..."

There was a silence. Even injured, even half-asleep, Kelly was just too smart an agent—or maybe he could just sense Scotty's feeling of being caught with his hand in the cookie jar—because his next question was, "You been up?"

What could he say? 'I was sitting in the peanut gallery waiting for your nightmare to start because you're Untouchable?' "Yes," Scotty said shortly.

"Well, that's wonderful, that's a nice friend for ya." Scotty winced at the bitterness in the quiet voice. "Lays wide awake staring at the ceiling while I'm having a nightmare, 'cause..." he trailed off, a man at the end of his strength, then resumed, "no reason you should _care_, wasn't you getting tortured and all that."

There was no clearer way Kelly could be saying, "You _heard? _Then where the hell _were _you?"

And no way Scotty could give him what he was clearly asking for.

But hey, there was no rule saying he couldn't talk to the guy… Scotty rose out of bed and padded over to the sheet-swathed lump in the other cot. "Boy," his partner said, "that was so real. Could swear it really happened."

A small jolt of fear shot through Scotty. Kel wasn't blanking, was he? "Don't you remember? It did." Gently, he pulled the sheet off Kelly's bandaged face, looking for signs of disorientation not attributable to the dream.

Kelly raised a tentative hand to his bound head, feeling the gauze as though just now realizing it was there. He blinked, his eyes lost, confused, disoriented. "See? You remember, right?" Scotty said brightly. The lost expression tore at his heart, and drawn inexorably, he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Didn't pull anything, did you?" he asked, tone studiedly light.

"Nope." Kelly's voice was puzzled, but he didn't turn towards him. However desperate Kelly's need, he never did reach out to Scotty when he was feeling bad, not until Scotty reached for him first. Scotty had never figured whether it was because Kelly was a more private person than even him, whether he thought he didn't deserve it, or whether he was just afraid of rejection. Well, it was certainly useful now, because he really didn't relish the thought of having to push Kelly away.

"Okay, sport, just watch yourself." Scotty _(wanted to sit by Kelly until he fell asleep again)_ jumped up, pulled the sheet up around Kelly's shoulders, adjusted his pillows, and yawned exaggeratedly. _(it's not about what you need, it's what he needs that matters) _"Man, 'm tired. G'night, Kel."

He could feel his partner's eyes following him all the way back to his own bed, but there was nothing he could do about that.

* * *

Scene Eight

Kelly's lost.

He's…drifting. Sometimes the memories attack, searing and terrifying, but most of the time he has no idea what happened. He used to, he thinks. Sometimes. Have an idea. Meanwhile, he depends on hearsay. Tortured, the docs tell him, and he has no reason to disbelieve them. Why would a doctor lie to him?

It's cold in the world, and it's… sterile somehow. He's… never felt so afraid, so alone, and it terrifies him. He feels like – like something out of one of those creature features. Zombies. The Undead. They walk and talk, but they're not human; if you cut them, they won't bleed. Their veins are full of air. He would shudder if he could feel anything. He doesn't say it, of course. Who could he say it to that wouldn't lock him in a padded cell? And… and he can't say it to Scotty. That would upset Scotty, and he really doesn't want to upset Scotty. Doesn't want to upset anyone, doesn't want to rock the boat, but above all he doesn't want to upset Scotty, because it feels like he's all Kelly has left.

When Scotty's there, it's not so bad. They released his partner a – week? – month? – ago – time's a little fuzzy, somehow – but Scotty comes every day, and he always has something – a board game, a deck of cards, a comic book, a balloon, construction paper, a book, a funny story, one time even modeling clay, not to mention the rubber duck that squeaked – and he always brings the newspaper, reading it in a way that makes Kelly crack up, making up news items and playing with the words, and just making Kelly feel that he could maybe be human again one of these days. More important than anything he brings, though, are Scotty's warm expression, his kind regard, his gentle smile, and Kelly latches onto these, the one thing in this sterile place, with its rigid rules, endless therapy sessions, harsh doctors and stern eyes, that gives him life. For a few hours every day, he has that.

But he's got nothing to hold onto, and he feels himself slipping away, a little more each day.

And he can't help feeling that it wasn't always like this, anchorless, floundering. That there used to be more. That this hollow emptiness, so like death, used to be relieved by warmth, that his veins didn't always have empty air whistling through them – the nights, it was something about the nights, they were warm. Like being anchored. Like being… home.

A memory surfaces of a tight embrace, of being held; of comfort, of being told it's all right, a soothing voice reassuring him that he's not as abnormal as he thinks. He feels a cold pang, and sinks down onto the bed. Scotty… yeah, that's right… Scotty used to hold him after his nightmares, and then he stopped. He can trace at least one feeling to its source, now: Scotty won't even touch him anymore. Why is that?

Kelly snorts. That's easy enough: the thing Scotty won't talk about. He isn't a man anymore. Every little sound makes him jump. Every time a nurse comes in, he goes ape. If the lights go out suddenly, he flips his wig. He's become a coward. He's lost his nerve. If he looks at it charitably, then Scotty can't stand to touch him because of what he's become. Maybe he's afraid of emphasizing his helplessness. Less kindly, Scotty's disgusted by him.

He lies back against the pillows, thinking. He and Scotty go way back, and he can't put his heart into believing that his partner harbors ill-will towards him, even towards this husk he has become. The man still jokes around with him, comes to see him every day. But hey, for the other, the thing Scotty never, ever talks about, pretends isn't there, Kelly can't blame his partner; you can't control the very real feelings of distaste when a real man's confronted with a…

"Rise and shine!"

He looks up and smiles, from the heart. Scotty stands in the door with a jigsaw puzzle, and he knows that for the next few hours, he won't be drifting so badly.

"Morning." He's grateful Scotty's there. Anyone would be.

And if Scotty can't bring himself to mention that Kelly's damaged goods, if he can't bear to touch him, it's only to be expected, and no reflection on his partner. Maybe if Kelly gets back to normal, things can go back to the way they were.

He can only try.

* * *

Scene Nine

"How bad is he?"

"How bad?" Binores took a puff of his cigarette, staring at the man undergoing what passed for therapy at Sanford's hands. "I don't know how bad." _Worse than he should be, you bastards._

"You've had him six weeks," Anderson said.

"Yes, we have." _And you've withheld the one thing that was helping for four. _Only the thought of Helen made him hold his peace, and he regarded the man before him with barely veiled contempt. He wondered if Anderson knew what lay beneath his words. "And in another six we might begin to understand something." He pasted on a sardonic smile, hating the game of charades. "Physically, he's almost healed. Emotionally, well, that's something else." He looked from Robinson, reading the Rorschach blots with increasing performance anxiety, to the department boss. _I'm going to tell you, and I hope it's what you wanted to hear, you snake._ "He's not the man he was before. Test after test reveals an inability to makes decisions. Severe, almost pathological anxiety about his personal safety. Under even the slightest stress—panic. He drowns, I mean it. He simply drowns." _There. I hope you're happy._

That damned innocent-shocked look again. "They did that much damage?"

_They started it, and you finished it!_ Pushed to the snapping-point, Norman blurted, "Why don't we _say_ it?"

But he knew why not. _Helen. _He bit it off with an effort, diverting his anger into something not nearly as dangerous but no less true. "He controlled himself into a nervous breakdown. But he didn't talk, did he?" _He's braver by far than any of you chickenshits gave him credit for – braver than you would ever be, and you're destroying him, and making me an accomplice. And that I will never forgive._

"I.." Anderson had the grace to run a finger round his collar in embarrassment. Norman took some satisfaction in knowing that he was aware of the veiled disapproval in his, Norman's, words, that Anderson knew Norman was aware of the outrage he was perpetrating against the man behind the one-way glass. _Good, squirm, you bastard._ "I assume you know what he went through?"

Binores couldn't keep the contemptuous smile from his voice, from his face. "I know only a part of it." The black-and-white image of Scott huddled next to Robinson in the corner flashed across his mind. "I don't have top secret clearance."

They spoke of details for a moment—nothing either of them didn't know, _what, you think you'll pacify me by telling me what you're destroying this man for, metallurgical process, my eye—_He could have gone for Anderson's throat at the oh-so-sincere unhappiness on his face as he said, "By the time we pulled our raid, they'd been tipped off." _Doesn't he know Benedict told me? Or are the layers of lies that important? _"The whole operation was a foul-up."

There wasn't much Norman could say to that, except maybe get a little said of what he wanted. "You know, Mr. Anderson, in most human occupations, if there's a foul-up, a piece of equipment gets damaged, a machine." He smiled, face hard. "In your particular line of business it happens to human beings. Like him." He jerked his head at this man who had been victimized perhaps worse than he would ever know. "Now he's damaged. Maybe beyond repair."

If he had hoped the Department boss would have an attack of conscience, he was doomed to disappointment.

* * *

Scene Ten

Kelly stood by the light-switch. What he would do was inure himself to darkness. Stupid, ridiculous—Since when was a grown man afraid of the dark? But his finger stayed firmly on the light-switch, because if it stayed dark, and he couldn't turn the light back on—Man, he hated himself. Weak, pitiful, useless. Determined, he flicked the light off again. Just a little longer each…

The knock thundered through his body, and he snapped the light on in terror before he realized it was the door. That it was Scotty's rhythmic knock. He barely had a moment to calm his nerves before his partner waltzed in, loud and smiling. "Mercy calling, mercy calling! We heal the sick and we cheer up the wounded, y'see!"

"Right," Kelly said, looking away. If his partner noticed his shameful state, he gave no sign, and he was relieved he'd managed to hide the truth a little longer. "Right, that's good news." He looked at the miserable, drooping plant, and it was actually funny, a little. "What kind of cheer have you got there?"

"Well, it's this, uh. Lessee." Scotty smiled shyly, actually looking a little nervous for a moment, before breaking into a little number. "Rah, rah, sis boom bah. Get out the bed! Get out the bed, we said."

Kelly smiled in spite of himself, drawn in, luxuriating in the silliness. He almost, almost felt like himself again, and reached out, lifting a sad, drooping leaf. "That really is the most pitiful bush I have ever seen you make."

"Ah! Ah, but do not lie, sir, for truly his name is Charlie," Scotty bent, lifting the drooping tree to reveal the hollow base, "and he hath no roots."

It was the most fun Kelly had had since the last time Scotty was here, and he was outright smiling now. "Is that right?"

"See, see…" Scotty delved into the abominable Grecian urn the tree had stood in, his voice muffled, "See what Mercy Mother has brought to yourself!" Kelly chuckled as Scotty handed him a bottle of champagne and a glass. "Actually," his partner's tone dropped confidentially as he rooted around some more, producing glasses and fruit wrapped in napkins, "I had a woman in there, but they made me take her out, y'see, because it's a hospi-tull."

"All right," Kelly laughed. He loved the way Scotty said that. It cracked him up, and he said something in response, beginning to relax…

"That won't be necessary," said a cool female voice that struck terror into Kelly's heart.

Scotty looked up and greeted the nurse even as Kelly's blood froze. _Against the rules_. "Hey, listen," he said, trying to hold it together in front of Scotty, "this is against the rules, man." He scrambled off the bed, gathering up the stuff. _Hide. Hide, please don't hurt me, please no shackles pain dark cruel hurts rules tests_—"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"No… come on!" Scotty called out, looking up, startled and dismayed, but Kelly shook him off, the chill in his gut the only thing that mattered now. Scotty didn't understand. He stuffed the things back into the urn, trying not to panic.

"I'm sorry!" Kelly called to the authority figure. He'd hide the evidence and everything would be all right. "Wait, wait!" his partner was calling… But Scotty didn't get it, and Kelly apologized again, looking over his shoulder. "No," he told Scotty, repeating, "I'm sorry," to the nurse. "C'mon," Kelly went on pleadingly, begging Scotty to be reasonable, not to break the rules. In went the forbidden items, the bottle, the bread, the banana. Scotty reached out to stop him, but he didn't get it, he had no idea. "I'm…" Kelly began, but Scotty cut him off with a "No, no man, it's not necessary!" His partner had knelt on the floor opposite him, concern on his face, but that didn't matter. Scotty didn't understand. "I'm sorry," Kelly began.

"No! Listen," Scotty cut across the flow of words. "Hey! Wait! Lighten up…" He grabbed Kelly's hands, and Kelly stilled at the touch, and listened. "Listen, man," Scotty's tone was light, but his face earnest, "the head nurse is very hip, she busted me three feet inside the—" his kind eyes looked at Kelly with sympathy, "—coming in the building! It's quite all right," Scotty released his hands, and Kelly saw, as though waking from a dream, the distress he'd put on the kind face. Looking quite guilty now, his partner went on, "And I figured, you know, I'd just bring it up 'cause it would taste better if I sneaked it in." He finished and gave Kelly an apologetic half-smile.

Disgusted with himself, Kelly took a breath. "Yeah, it probably would…"_ If I were the man I used to be _"…taste better at that." He took a second, waiting for the blind panic to recede. "So it isn't any federal case. I don't know why I—" He rose, humiliated, trying to cover for it with lightness, wishing there were any excuse for his stupid, childish behavior. "You notice how I…?"

He'd hoped beyond hope that Scotty might tell him it was okay, might give him a reason that could forgive his paranoid, his sick reaction, but Scotty just followed him up to where he went to sit upon the bed again. "I hadn't noticed anything," he said, "really."

The nurse said something about his being released, which he followed, sort of, but mainly just tried to fathom the reason Scotty was lying to him. Well, of course he had an image of Kelly he wanted him to live up to. Too bad Kelly wasn't that man anymore.

The girl put a sheet of paper in his hand, and Scotty was there, bouncing with glee, "Now see that? See that? And here's another thing," he produced another document like a conjurer, "put that right on top of it. What's that say? Scott And Friend. Commence Leave. Thirty Days' Leave—Immediately!" Practically chortling, Scotty patted him on the arm and skipped over to pack Kelly's bag, clattering about, and finally burst out with a whoop of glee. "Let's get out of here!"

"Who ordered this?" Kelly asked, hearing the nurse's response with about half an ear. "Now wait a minute," he protested. The thought of leaving made him quite dizzy, as though something were draining him from the inside. He couldn't walk in the street with no anchor, no blood in his veins, could he? "This could be just another piece of paper—work—" He realized he was clutching at straws. "—mistake, because they're always doing that."

"Well…uh, " Scotty's voice was close by his ear, "do you wanna go, or _what?"_

_No, _the response came immediately. He didn't want to go anywhere, he just wanted to… But Scotty was asking, and there was only one answer he would accept. He just had to be man enough to give it. "Yeah, well—" He gathered his courage against the slab of ice inside him. It was easier to lie than he thought, like jumping off a cliff. "'Course."

"Well, come on, man, 'cause we got invitations to all kinds of parties! There's a party being given in the Costa del Sol…" Kelly could hear Scotty's funny patter next to his ear, and it should cheer him up, it really should, but he wasn't the same man who used to go to parties, and the ice in his innards was spreading, paralyzing him. "…and they're waiting, it started in 1961 and they're waiting for the guest of honor to return, you see…"

Kelly couldn't speak; it was too cold. He took a deep breath to steady himself. He had never felt so lost, so paralyzed, so indecisive.

"Then we got a hacienda…" Scotty moved up close behind him, on the bed…and put his arm around him.

The gesture should have meant nothing, but was everything. Scotty kept talking, but all Kelly could focus on was the aching relief of the warm hand draped across his shoulder, Scotty so close that his chin rested nearly on Kelly's collarbone. The cold dissipated, the block of ice melting. Scotty's arm about him was a lifeline, making him weak with relief at the warmth flowing through him, starting at the site of the affectionate touch and thawing him all the way through to his frozen core, relieving the agonizing cold like a warm stream in the sea. "…In Andalucia …" His partner's patter continued, but Kelly was reeling, starting to smile already, opening into the sun, relaxing into the support of having an anchor to steady him. "…to which Don Jose Morales himself sent us engraved invitations, you see!"

To Kelly's great joy, he could actually seem to speak, now, form coherent sentences. "Don Jose _Who_ Morales?"

"You gave him…" The comradely smile, the comforting touch, never faltered. "You gave him tennis lessons in Morocco!"

"Well," and it was amazingly easy to speak, to joke, "That must be the reason I don't remember him."

"So," with a final pat, Scotty's hand withdrew and he was back in his shell of loneliness, "you wanna give it a try, or what?"

Braced by the memory of the touch, he huffed out a breath. 'Giving it a try' was reassuring in its own way, almost allowing that it wasn't easy. It sounded a lot less scary than a lot of things he'd heard from the docs. Besides, Scotty would be with him… "Yeah. Sure."

It was almost worth it to hear Scotty's shout of triumph. "All _right!_ Make way, make way…"

As his partner flung his clothing into the suitcase, Kelly, cold again, passed a hand over his eyes. He'd get over this, he'd push through this barrier that had him unmanned. He'd get his courage back. He'd be the man he used to be. He'd be the man his partner was pretending he was, the man he needed him to be, if it killed him.

* * *

Scene Ten (b)

Scotty shook his head as he packed for Kelly, remembering his slip. He'd been so happy to know Kelly was being released that he'd let his guard down; seeing Kelly so disturbed, he'd touched him, practically hugged him! Idiot.

He'd just have to be more careful in future, that was all. No matter how much Scotty wanted to touch him, to hold him, he wouldn't use Kelly for his own ends.

Although it had made Kelly smile… He shook himself sternly. None of that. The doctor knew best, after all.

* * *

Scene Eleven

"Dr. Binores?" Carol, the Head Nurse, waylaid Norman in the corridor.

He turned to her with an easy quip. At least his faithful staff wouldn't screw him over. "It's good to feel needed."

Her face, though, was a little perplexed. "We need your signature on this report."

He scanned the single sheet, a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. _They're releasing Kelly Robinson after six weeks? Where to? To do what? They can't really be sending him back again to maybe, maybe meet those— _"Who signed the order on this?"

"The Chief of Psychiatry; at the Department's request." The head nurse sighed. "Thought it was strange; they've given him thirty days' vacation."

"I'll tell you what they've given him: thirty years in a mental institution." Binores couldn't hide the bitterness, and certainly not from Carol. He was a butcher, a traitor to his Oath. "He's hanging on by a thread right now. One push. Mosquito bite. We'd never get him back." _And we could have gotten him back._ He slammed down the clipboard, hating the world, hating himself. "Never."

* * *

Scene Twelve

Scotty sipped his Coke, relaxing to the strains of violin and Spanish guitar. Kelly had opened up, thanks to Lindy – bless that gal – and Scotty found himself letting go and laughing for the first time since the Castillo. Even more amazingly, Kelly responded to their host's veiled threats with a sardonic half-smile and a perceptive quip. _Maybe it really is going to be okay,_ Scotty thought, although he stared uneasily after _el patron _ as Lindy told them about her abortive love affair with Don Jose. "But it doesn't matter," she went on, and he nodded encouragingly. "Tomorrow," she said, "we'll make the best of it. Tomorrow you two guys can play like Manolete. And then, then we can go flying," Scotty silently blessed her again for her attentiveness as she politely declined more hors d'oeuvres, "and then…"

He saw the blood drain from Kelly's face even as Lindy chattered on, Kel's wide, terrified eyes staring across the room. What the—this couldn't be the effect of their host's threats—he looked across the room to see what his partner was staring at with such panic—

There was a ringing, metallic crash, and Scotty whirled. Kelly had flung his arm up and sent the hors d'oeuvres tray flying, food raining everywhere.

The musicians, startled, stopped playing, and as the music stopped, the party guests turned to stare at Kelly; he stumbled backwards, arms raised to ward off an unseen horror. Scotty froze, biting his lip. _Ignore it. Pretend it's not happening. _He stood immobile, his instinctive urge to move stillborn, the doctor's words ringing in his head._ Leave him there. He's strong, _Scotty thought desperately. _He'll snap out of it… Any minute now…_

Scotty's heart sank as Kelly, face set with terror, scuttled away and hit the wall, backed up into a corner. The assembled men and women in their finery stood staring at the cowering man as he put up his hands like a shield, curling up, shrinking into himself. Rooted to the spot, Scotty glanced from Kelly to the point he had been staring at – a moustachioed man with a toothpick – wondering if this was what had set him off, what on earth to do now – Kel's chalk-white face was stretched tight with terror, and he was just shrinking there, hunched over, exposed … everyone was looking… staring at Kelly Robinson cracking up…

Something snapped in Scotty and he broke out of his paralysis, scrambling to Kelly's side in an instant. "Boy-o-boy-o-boy, that sangria sure packs a punch, don't it?" he said loudly, grabbing his partner's arm. His gut twisted; Kelly was rigid, worse than any panic attack in the hospital. "Hey, hey, Dobbsie," he whispered under his breath, "it's cool, man, everything's copasetic, you just hang in there, all right?" But Kelly was petrified, and Scotty had to physically manhandle him upright.

"Oh, it sure does, Scotty sweetheart, it sure does!" Bless her, Lindy was at Kelly's other side, taking his right arm, babbling in a high-pitched voice quite unlike her own. "Yes, I'm feeling quite lightheaded too." She shot him an urgent, inquiring glance, which he ignored completely, and chattered on. "Spanish liquor really is quite different from American, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, it's not the same thing at all!" Scotty played along loudly, then let Lindy carry the conversational weight while shifting quickly to his _sotto voce_ patter. "I know you're scared, Kel, I know, I know, man, it's okay to be scared, I'd be scared too, you got the right, you just be scared all you want, but hey, we're gonna be okay, we're together now, we're not back _there_ anymore, Jack, we're _here,_ not _there,_ and there's a beautiful woman here too, you wouldn't want to miss that now, would ya?"

He locked an arm round Kelly, gripping him firmly about the waist, supporting him to his feet, forcing him to move. The man seemed to come to life at the touch, starting to shake in good earnest, leaning into Scotty's body, unfolding from his rigid crouch, jerkily straightening up. Still murmuring gentle words of encouragement under his breath, Scotty steered him through the gauntlet of watching guests, leading him from the room, Lindy helping and running interference the whole time.

* * *

They limped to their room, stopping at the door. Lindy looked from Kelly's shuddering, distrait form to Scotty. "Is he going to be… Scotty, what's wrong?"

"Probably just had too much to drink, sweetheart," he lied through his teeth as he fumbled in his pocket for their room key while trying to keep the Statue of Robinson from crashing to the floor.

Lindy steadied Kelly as Scotty rammed the key into the lock. "I know that's not true," she said evenly, "but I won't push you, not now. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't know," Scotty muttered, too confused to think clearly. "Maybe later, all right?"

"All right," Lindy nodded. "Just… help him, Scotty, _please?"_

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he promised as he manhandled Kelly into the room and into his bed. He heard her close the door behind them as he awkwardly stripped Kelly of his jacket and dress trousers, finally laying him down in undershirt and boxers. "Whatever set you off," he muttered as he worked, "we're gonna fix it, Duke. It'll be okay. Bet your bottom dollar on it. Probably just all that stuff they did to you coming out. 'S gonna be okay, man, yeah, it'll be all right."

He covered Kelly up, tucking the sheet around his shoulders; the catatonic man had ended up curled up on his side, knees drawn up, hands up to his chest, eyes still frighteningly open, staring at nothing. Adjusting the pillows, Scotty looked unhappily into the tormented eyes, as though they might yield the reason for the sudden seizure. The wretched fear in Kel's pale face tore at his heart, and he mopped the sweaty brow with a corner of the sheet, then on impulse, reached out and smoothed Kelly's hair off his face, running his knuckles along the jawline, his open palm coming to rest on the pale cheek.

Instantly, Kelly relaxed, the tension draining out of him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head into Scotty's hand, as though eager for the touch. "Scotty," Kelly slurred.

At the broken whisper, Scotty reached out and laid his other hand on Kelly's shoulder, rubbing the cold flesh – he could feel the goosebumps even through the sheet. "You just hang loose, man," Scotty murmured, "and…" He trailed off. Kelly had fallen asleep between one breath and the next, the terror smoothed out of his suddenly slack features. The relaxed face was such a contrast from the awful rigidity of the panic attack that Scotty grimaced, only now realizing its severity. "Aw, Kel…" Shaking his head, he stroked the sleeping man's head softly, carding his fingers through his hair. Kelly sighed and half-smiled in his sleep.

_I must insist that you not touch him. _Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Scotty snatched back his hand; the last thing he wanted to do was cause Kelly a setback.

He rose, stepping out onto the verandah, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. Scotty hoped he hadn't done his partner any harm by wading in there, downstairs. But in all honesty, he'd waited as long as he could. Maybe it_ was _selfish, but he couldn't have put up a second longer with seeing Kelly like that, humiliated and stared at by everyone. _You can't use him for your own gratification._ His stomach turned. Maybe he _should_ have been patient, waited, not thought of his own feelings.

He leaned his elbows on the railing, exhaling. And what kind of a prize dum-dum was he, forgetting everything the docs had told him like that? He certainly hadn't done the right thing and ignored the attack; he'd acknowledged it, even admitted out loud that Kelly was scared. Told him he had a right to be, for crying out loud!

In his own defense, he thought reasonably, he'd had to do _something_ to avoid putting Kelly in too much of a weird spotlight, if he ever wanted to play tennis in that circuit again – and it was never good for your cover to stick out like a giraffe with a sore neck, unless it was deliberate.

He shook his head. He could almost hear his Mom telling him not to make excuses for himself. There was no excuse for endangering Kelly's recovery. He took in another lungful of air; it was just hard to get his head around the fact that what felt so natural was in fact so wrong. But he had to get used to it. It wasn't as though he hadn't done plenty of things that went against the grain for the greater good.

_Aw, nuts._ He shook himself. This was getting him nowhere. He'd just have to be more careful next time, that was all.

Uneasily, he just hoped that he hadn't done even more damage with his lack of self-control.

* * *

Scene Thirteen

He couldn't fault his self-control the following morning, though; Scotty bade his groggy partner good-morning (though a cheerful demeanor was beyond him) and refrained from discussing anything until Kelly brought it up. His one concession to his urge to do for his partner was a quick trip downstairs to get him a steaming mug of coffee while he showered, and applying the docs' creams and bandages with the most impersonal of touches. His conscience was clear as he leaned in the verandah door-cum-picture-window and listened to Kelly's halting explanation, his description of faces and places.

It grew hard, though, when he realized just what had set Kelly off last night. The implications—there were a thousand things he should be doing, which Kelly should be doing—but right now it was all he could do to tamp down the shock and horror of the awful reason for Kelly's breakdown. No bloody wonder. If it had been him, he had no doubt he'd have not just huddled in a corner, but ripped out the couch upholstery and started a whole new career as a sofa spring. He opened his mouth to tell Kelly as much, but closed it again. He couldn't say a word about the breakdown. This was business as usual – or had to be. "Well now," he confirmed, "is that the guy, or is that the guy?"

Kelly's movements were jerky as he looked round, almost startled. "That's him."

Hard as he tried, Scotty couldn't completely keep the sympathy off his face. It was painful to see Kelly so vulnerable and trying so hard to hide it, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, smoking to calm his nerves, swallowing nervously and clenching his teeth against the tension. Scotty had a sudden, irresistible urge to walk round that chair, stand behind him, rub his shoulders, maybe wrap him in a hot towel, but he was getting better at controlling his impulses now. His tone a resolute Business-As-Usual, he suggested, "Well, you want to go on down and bust him, or what?" If Kelly wanted to go downstairs and kick the man's butt, Scotty'd be happy to oblige…

He hadn't been optimistic as to a reply; it had been weak at best, and Kelly knew it as well as he did. His expressive eyes were furtive, hiding, his facial muscles tense. "Well," it came out a sigh, "who do we turn him over to, the…" he hesitated, "Spanish authorities?"

"Yeah, y'know, you got…" He brought himself up short just in time. _Don't say You got tortured. Don't wallow in negative emotions._ He searched for words. "Still…" He juggled the sentence in his head. "Torturing isn't exactly smiled upon in this country."_ Good, good, neutral. _He was proud of the way he'd avoided the use of any object in the sentence.

"Well, we've got no way to prove that he…" Kelly, his partner in the linguistic game, calmed his voice and suppressed a shudder with visible effort, "… tortured anybody." It was true, but Scotty sighed, hating to hear it. "And," he went on with that damning practicality, _"he_ can probably prove…" Kelly visibly suppressed a grimace, "that he _didn't."_

Scotty nodded, disgusted. There were limits to what a man could take, and Scotty had nearly reached his. If Mr. Toothpick truly was the guy who had reduced the strongest, bravest man he knew to this, then he wanted to break his neck, authorities be blowed. But he couldn't go down and shoot him out of hand like a mad dog, couldn't… It wasn't procedure. There were _rules_ to be followed. By the good guys. Sometimes he was heartily sick of being a good guy.

And Kelly, with that incredible resilience, lightened his tone with an effort. "So the best thing to do is just… wait him out. He…" The smooth tone faltered. "He's here for a reason..." Scotty saw him swallow convulsively at that, his jaw clenching, "…and he'll make the first move."

As far as Scotty was concerned, there was only one reason Mr. Toothpick could be here for, and Kelly's fatalistic acceptance of that—the toll Scotty could see it taking—made him feel like ramming his head into a brick wall. "He sure maintained his cool at the party," he said.

Kelly stared hard into his coffee cup, lifting it to his lips and taking a gulp. "I didn't."

And there they were, up against it again, and there was nothing Scotty could say. A hundred thoughts flitted through his mind. _And for my next trick, I shall spend an evening with my torturer without even breathing hard! What, did you seriously expect to see the guy who ripped you up so bad they almost couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again – the guy who'll maybe do it again if we give him half a chance – and then just go skipping through fields of daisies singing "Feelin' Groovy"? Man, even Superman gets a little off his game when he's hit with a ton of Kryptonite! You…_

Kelly's next words came out in a sigh. "Boy, I don't have much cool these days."

Scotty had never some so close to disobeying doctor's orders. More words trembled on his lips, words that he could swear, he could _swear,_ Kelly wanted to hear. _Cool? Are you out of your pea-brained mind? Don't you get how bad off you were, how close you came to not making it, and you expect to just jump back in the saddle and blame yourself for not being able to? Do you even remember how you told me not to push myself in physiotherapy after Hong Kong? Kel, you're holding yourself to an impossible standard, you're STILL calling yourself names, don't you GET that nerves have a healing period too…_ He opened his mouth to say it.

"Hey!" Scotty burst out, keeping his tone light. "Listen, man. I got a pot on me, man—I gotta get rid of this pot. I gotta do some exercise." He turned away from the risk, stalked out onto the balcony. "Gotta get in shape…" No rule that said he couldn't clown around, maybe get Kelly to crack a smile. With a bellow, he started leaping up and down, doing jumping-jacks, relieving his own tension in the process, getting rid of the traitorous urge to mess with Kelly's recovery. He stuck out his arms and legs in all directions in a parody of Swedish exercises, finally cutting it short to turn to Kelly, willing him to know how much he wanted to help, wanting to convey his desire to do something, anything, for him.

He regarded his partner's pale face neutrally, and was gratified to see the barest trace of—he couldn't call it a smile—but a shaft of sunlight filtering through the clouds. Scotty searched for silly words, found them. "I don't think all 'em hoos and stuff get rid of nothing, really, man."

Kelly looked up at him, and something about the play of his facial muscles under the skin, the light in his eyes, the security that stole across his expression, let Scotty dare to hope that despite his own slips, maybe the treatment was starting to take effect, that maybe Kelly was going to regain some sense at last.

* * *

Scene Fourteen

Obviously not. "A bull?" gasped Lindy. "Is he out of his mind? He's giving you a bull!"

And instead of rejecting the challenge, like any sane man, Kelly was smiling through the tension that had suddenly blanketed him. "Well, he said he'd pay me back, honey; for you."

"But…" Scotty let Lindy persuade Kelly to the contrary, something else niggling at his mind. Something important... "He's throwing away almost a thousand dollars!"

"Mr. Robinson!" called Don Jose.

"Well, you're worth more than a thousand dollars, honey." And over Lindy's inarticulate protest, Kelly was out the door—he was actually going to go through with it! Incredulously, Scotty turned and waded through the crowd out after him.

"Excuse me," he said, "Pardon me." This was getting out of hand fast, he thought as he shoved through the crowd. As if it wasn't enough that the unknown torturer had turned up out of the blue, and if that was coincidence he was the Queen of the May, now Kelly was on some crazy crusade to prove he was fighting fit, and a dumber, more stupid—If he didn't knock some sense into that fruitcake's head…

He arrested Kelly with a whistle, caught up to him on the whitewashed stairs. "Hey, listen man, you got a—" And then his dumb insistence on ignoring doctor's orders caught up with him. What on earth could he say? _You're still shell-shocked? You get panic attacks? Now's not the time?_ He cast about for words. "You got a bad—uh…" Inspiration struck, "Uh, you got a bad back, man, why don't you – just cool it on this one, aright?"

Kelly turned, and every defense was stripped from the hazel eyes. "Maybe I'll find it, man."

The raw honesty in Kelly's face cut through to Scotty's heart. It invited confidence, and the words trembled on Scotty's lips. He wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him, he wanted to yell, _What in the world are you trying to prove? That you're a hundred percent? Well, you ain't, and I can see that because I'm smarter than you! You will be, just not now, and getting disemboweled isn't going to prove anything except that I'm right, which I always am anyways, so... can we save the hospital bills and..._

'You've got to treat him as if he was all right, because he's got enough problems without you treating him like he isn't.'

Scotty turned a neutral, mystified regard on Kelly. "Find what? You didn't lose anything!"

His partner's voice was low and bitter. "You keep saying that."

For a moment, Scotty was afraid his eyes were saying everything he wanted to, everything he could if given half a chance. _You never lost it, man, you're still hurting is all, you haven't lost your nerve, _he opened his mouth to say it and doctor's orders could take a flying leap, _and this crazy crusade is just gonna add a horn through your stomach as a souvenir…_

Hating himself for a liar, Scotty spluttered, "Well—it's true, man!" He reached out, almost grabbing Kelly by the shoulder, stopping himself at the last minute, his hand hovering stupidly in mid-air, saying lamely but insistently, "Listen: you got a bad back."

"Alright, I…" Kelly trailed off, looking to Scotty for help, and Scotty suddenly found he had nothing left to say. _You're like a man with a broken leg trying to run a marathon before the plaster is off…why are you pushing yourself like this, why are you… _He'd said all he could, all he was allowed to, and all he could think was _Please take the out, Kelly, please…_

"You got a _bad back."_ Scotty repeated himself, wishing he could speak openly about this, wishing he could knock some sense into the idiot's dumb fool head…

"I've… I.." Kelly seemed about to open up, and Scotty hoped he would, hoped so hard—but no, Kelly's face settled into a mask, meeting Scotty's mendacity with a challenge, a pretence of his own. When he spoke, his voice was hard, impatient. "There's nothing wrong with my back. My back is _fine."_

And he was gone, clattering down the stairs into the bullring.

* * *

Scotty turned, exasperated. This was—maybe the docs were right, maybe Kelly _would_ find his courage in there, anything was possible—but all he could see was a monumentally bad idea, and the situation was just getting worse and worse.

And then he was upstairs again, and even Lindy had noticed. "Scotty," she said. "There's something wrong with him, isn't there? He's just—not the same guy." She followed his worried gaze down into the arena. "And… you won't tell me."

He pasted a smile on his face. There was something… This wasn't working. Something was wrong.

The more time he gave it to settle inside his head, the more he was realizing that something was terribly, terribly wrong about their situation, not wrong inside Kelly's head but flat-out _wrong _on a level that was disturbing, and he wasn't going to solve it here.

He had to get back. Had to talk to Anderson, find out how on earth the torturer had known that they were here. How he'd known to come to this Department-recommended, security-cleared party. Because once you asked that question—_How did Mr. Toothpick know to come here?_—once you asked it, no matter how many times Scotty turned the question over in his head, there weren't really all that many answers.

Well, there was one, but it just wasn't… it… it scared the living daylights out of him.

"Listen, I…" he said to Lindy, unable to tear his gaze from Kelly's form in the arena—man, the body language was all wrong, he shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have accepted the challenge—"I wanna borrow your airplane."

She fixed him with a concerned, implacable regard. _"Only_ if you tell me."

"All right." It was no decision at all, really. He wouldn't be here; she had to take over. Maybe, being a girl, she could help Kelly more than he could. "I'll tell you."

And he did.

* * *

Scene Fifteen

"Dr. Binores?"

Norman turned to see Kelly's partner, he of the understanding mind and soothing touch, coming up behind him in the corridor. _Damn, damn, damn._ He smiled. "Mr. Scott."

"Hi, Doc. Can I, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Binores didn't need to ask what about. He only wondered why it had taken this long for the man to question what had happened. He'd seen it all on the monitors, seen Kelly's condition deteriorating when the informal therapy was withdrawn… But he couldn't speak of it. "If it's about Mr. Robinson's condition," he said, trying to deflect the man's earnest regard, "Dr. Sanford is better qualified than I…"

He saw the flinch in the dark eyes, pigeonholed it automatically as trauma before doing a mental double-take. _Trauma? What the hell did Benedict do to him? _

But the agent gave nothing away. "I'd prefer to speak with you, if you don't mind," Scott said formally.

"Go ahead," said Norman, resigning himself to his fate. He led Scott into his small office, ushering him into a chair. At the last moment, he decided not to sit at his own desk, seating himself across from the other man instead. "What can I do for you?"

"Kelly's having trouble," Scott began tentatively.

"I'm not surprised." It came out more sharply than he had intended, and entirely unplanned.

The man blinked. "Oh. Well. Yeah, I…"

"It was only to be expected. What are his symptoms?"

Scott's face held a trace of puzzlement, but he dutifully said, "Well, there's the nightmares, of course…"

"How many times a night?"

The agent rubbed a hand over his head. Hmm, exhibiting some symptoms of stress, too. "I don't exactly keep track," he muttered, "but since we've been… since he was discharged, three times a night. Maybe more, sometimes."

Binores gritted his teeth. Kelly'd been down to one before they'd withheld—"What else?"

"Well." Scott was tentative. "There was this, this incident, see…"

"It's not classified, is it?" asked Norman, mindful of the security camera behind them.

Scott blinked, as though this question struck at the heart of the matter. "N—o," he said slowly, "no, I really doubt that it is." Norman nodded encouragingly. "He—we were at this party and he was doing really well…"

Norman couldn't believe his ears. In that man's condition? Loud noises and unfamiliar faces and pressure to socialize and much shifting of emotional gears? "A _party? _With _strangers?"_

"Yeah," Scott said mildly. "Doctor's orders, take him to parties, keep him entertained, y'know, cheerful?"

_I am a whore, I am a whore. _The camera at his back, Norman muttered a sound that could be assent.

"And then, then he saw the man who tortured him, y'see—"

_"What?_ Are you _kidding_ me?" Norman let the bolt of shock pass through him before grasping at straws. "That's—that's a helluva coincidence, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Scott replied, and his tone was bitter.

The doctor kept his tone gentle. "And he's certain it's not someone who resembled him, or…"

Scott shook his head once, firmly. "I know… I know it's hard to believe, Doc, y'know, but Kelly's not a hysterical— He wouldn't just hallucinate this. I mean, yeah, his nerves are still healing, but he's an agent, the best. Faces are his business, details, body language… I've seen him pick out an enemy agent in a Mickey Mouse mask in a stadium fulla people. He's not mistaken, I'm sure of it. It was the guy."

_Good God. _Norman stiffened, then slowly blew out a breath. "And then, how did he react?"

"Well," Scott seemed somehow embarrassed to be telling it, on his partner's behalf, "he… kinda had a panic attack. He knocked over a tray of hors d'oeuvres—they were lousy anyway, though—and ended up in… in a corner. Just… kind of…" The man's gaze dropped. "Kind of hiding."

Norman passed a hand over his eyes. Untreated, there were only a few ways this could eventually end: catatonia, fugue state, psychotic break… He forced himself to calm, to ask, "And then?"

"And then, well, I gotta admit, doc, I did something I'm not proud of." Binores looked up at the clearly upset agent. "I… waited as long as I could… but… he was just kinda curled up there like a scared little kid and it wasn't getting better, and people were staring at him…" He took a guilty breath. "Doesn't excuse it, I know. But I, I went over to him, and I kinda picked him up… put my arm round him and rubbed his back and everything," he admitted, "and then I took him back to our room, and put him to bed, covered him up, and, y'know, patted him on the shoulder and um… and I might have… I _did_ tell him, that it was okay to be scared. That it wasn't a big deal." The man bit his lip. "It was selfish. But…" he caught himself. "No buts. That's what I did…"

It actually took Binores a few moments to absorb what Scott was saying, and the reason for his it did hit, rage blinded him.

Norman jumped up from his seat, pacing in the confines of the narrow office. _First, do no harm. _"Mr. Scott, I believe that your partner is merely suffering from a little stress." Ignoring the shocked, uncomprehending look in the man's eyes, he snatched a prescription pad from the desk. "I want you to go get this, and give it to him immediately."

"Doc, I…"

"No buts." He scribbled on the pad the name of a mild tranquilizer, followed by MEN'S ROOM - TEN MINUTES, and signed it, handing it over with a crisp snap of paper, making sure Scott saw what was on it.

Scott was far too good an agent to glance up at the security camera. He nodded once, folded up the prescription, and left.

* * *

Scene Fifteen (b)

There was no-one else in the john, and he stood at the urinal until the agent joined him. He spoke low and urgently. "Scott," he finally managed to grate out, "you did nothing wrong._ Nothing. Wrong."_

It was clear that the man didn't believe him. "The Chief of Psychiatry…"

"Is a—a—" He cut himself off, wondering whether he dared speak. He was still floundering for words when Scott spoke again.

"Anyway, doc. I gotta tell you the rest of what happened. The next day, when he went into the bullring… We were just watching, but then Kelly decides he has to fight a bull…"

Norman let out an incredulous laugh. "You're kidding me, aren't you? This is an elaborate joke. Right? What is this?"

"I—" Scott shook his head. "You gotta understand, Doc, I didn't want him to, but he was so all-fired eager to get it back. His courage."

"What the HELL has his therapist been telling him? Have the words 'avoid nervous strain' never been spoken? He went into a BULLRING?" Norman couldn't help his voice rising. "To fight a bull?"

"It was supposed to be a cow," Scott raised his hands sheepishly, "but his host… aw, it's complicated, Doc. I told him not to. He was, uh, he insisted. Anyhow, he didn't fight. Took one look at the bull and ran. I was—relieved," he admitted, as though it were wrong.

"You should be." Finally, some sanity. "That's a sensible man's reaction."

The man looked at him strangely, but didn't comment. "Then he ran off, to the movies, probably…"

"He ran _off? _In the public street? _Alone?"_

Scott was looking at him even more strangely. "I figured, the doc said not to coddle him… 'Sides…" He sighed. "There's a friend of ours with him. She's a nice girl. She'll take care of him."

The hopeful note in the man's voice was almost too much for Norman to bear.

He was wondering what to say, where he could possibly start to repair this unholy mess, when the agent spoke again. "Doctor," he said gently, "are you _sure_ it was time to release Kelly?"

_How about that, a question I can answer. _"What do _you_ think?"

Scott's eyes looked everywhere but at him. "You're the doctor," he finally muttered.

It was strange for Norman to look at this man and see him cowed into submission by a white coat, because Agent Scott had every appearance of a man who was not easily cowed. This man who would have made a good therapist… "You want to know if he should have been released? Definitely not," he rapped out.

Scott blinked.

Norman repeated it emphatically. "There's some things I can't tell you," he said, "Secrets. I'm sure you understand. " And the pity of it was that Scott did, and nodded resignedly. "I'm not at liberty to disclose the details of your partner's treatment," he said truthfully, _or lack thereof, _he added in his mind, "but I can tell you one thing: At this stage in his healing, Mr. Robinson is in no condition, _no condition,_ to face the outside world. And I'm talking about going to the store, not facing down Bond villains and fighting—" he huffed incredulously "—bulls, and… It's a miracle he didn't crack up for good and all when he saw his torturer." He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was crossing over from the bizarre into the surreal.

The agent's puzzled frown deepened, along with the unease in the open face. "But then… who ordered his release, if he's not…?"

Binores grimaced, feeling as though he'd bitten down on something sour. "Chief of Psychiatry. At…" He wondered if this was spilling secrets, then thought, _To hell with it._ "At the Department's request." And he couldn't help adding, "I don't know what the hell Anderson thinks he's playing at, but he's throwing away your partner's sanity. He's gambling with his life."

"Oh." He half-expected Scott to slam his fist against the wall, but the man was obviously repressed. Norman wondered what element of his childhood had… He jerked himself out of the professional mindset and concentrated on giving the man what answers he could. The serious-faced agent deserved some honesty, at least, as much as he could give without endangering Helen.

"If you want my professional opinion," he rapped out, "I think it stinks, what was done to your partner. How his case was handled." He couldn't say the one thing, but there was much that he could. "They sent him out before he was ready and I don't care who knows it. His nerves are shot to pieces. Doesn't take an expert to see that. He's on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Anything could set him off, _anything..."_ He shook his head. "…let alone what you've told me! Kelly Robinson is an exceptionally strong man not to be in a padded cell already."

Shaken, Scott looked at him, his expression carefully impassive. He nodded, absorbing the blow. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to go. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Wait." Norman turned as well. This had gone too far, dammit. "I still can't spill secrets. But you're his lifeline, Mr. Scott. He needs you to hold onto. Remember that."

"I—"

"Here's a bit of free advice," Norman said. "You go get your partner. I don't care where he is, just go get him. Pull him out if you have to. Take him off somewhere on a desert island and spend a month lying on the beach. No parties, no loud noises, no dizzy dames—if you _must_ have female company, then only girls you already know and trust. Stay close to him. Talk to him. Touch him. Hold him. _Hold _him. Give him what's in that prescription," he gestured with his head towards where Scott presumably still had it on his person, "if necessary. You there, it probably won't be. There's something else I need to tell you, something I'll probably burn in Hell for, but I can't tell you until… until this… this thing is over."

" 'This thing'," Scott repeated. He looked shell-shocked, and he blinked.

Norman fumbled in his pocket for the slip of paper he had there. "He's gonna need some decent psychiatric therapy." _You, too, _he thought, but he was psychologist enough to know that it was Robinson's needs that would bring Scott to him for help. "Here's my address and my unlisted number. Call me. It's tapped, of course, but we can arrange a meet."

Scott took the number and nodded, looking almost dazed, speaking automatically. "I'll call after work, tell you we're all out of the pizza you ordered on your way home. If you can meet me, act mad and bust out cussing. I'll be downstairs within half an hour of the call."

Norman nodded. "I will. In the meantime, you might want a dose of that trank yourself."

The agent shook his head. "Got too much to do. But… thanks."

Scott's shoes made scuffing sounds on the tile, and as he listened to the squeak of the swinging door, Norman Binores reflected that never had any man been more undeserving of thanks than himself.

* * *

Scene Sixteen

Anderson whipped round and tossed the ball, almost catching Scotty off guard. Scotty had no patience for these games, really, but he controlled himself, as he had been doing for half an hour, making small talk in the gym. There had to be a way out of this mess. "Mr. Anderson," he began.

"Yeah?"

"Don't you even care," he said pointedly, "that Dr. Binores is a little bit upset that you effected Kelly's release from the hospital a little early? He seems to think it's a mistake."

"You know what I think?"

"What?" Scotty jumped onto the parallel bars, swinging back and forth. He had to get some of his frustration out, and this looked better in front of the boss than punching a wall. He landed in front of the man, waiting for an explanation.

"I think the therapist just wanted to keep Kelly cooped up in there so he could study him." Scotty looked down at the floor, unable to believe what he was hearing, unable to credit the flippant attitude on his superior's face. "Heh. Probably got some kind of a paper planned, huh?" Anderson continued, trying to draw Scotty in, inviting him to share his humor.

"Well," Scotty was dead serious, remembering Binores' incredulous outrage, trying to invite Anderson to tell him what on earth was going on, "he seems to think that Kelly's… about ready to crack up."_ Your partner is an exceptionally strong man not to be in a padded cell already. _"As a matter of fact—anything'll do it."

"Oh, Alex, come on!" Oh boy, the flippant tone again. "All he needs is a good vacation! That's why he was signed out!"

"Well the man's having a _lousy_ vacation." Remembering Kelly's tormented face, he tried hard for the right respectful attitude, but felt it might be slipping. As he always did, he fell back on the patter. "As a matter of fact, he ought to sue his travel agent."

"Oh?" Anderson looked on, all innocent surprise. "Hasn't worked out?"

Scotty grabbed for the rings. His mind was spinning, and it wasn't looking good, and _somebody_ had better spell it out to him fast, because he was not hep. He was so far from being hep as to be about to strangle somebody. "Uh—no, it has _not_ worked out, mostly because even his host…" He grunted. "…tried to waste him in the bullring. Set a bull loose on him." He flipped over on the rings. "Mr. Toothpick."

"Mr…" His superior looked at him questioningly.

"Mr. _Toothpick,"_ Scotty said pointedly. "The bald-headed guy. Plays E Flat Tenor rack." He turned upside down, panting, pushing out his nervous energy. "Also plays the wheel and the thumbscrews."

"You mean…" again the careful tone of false surprise, "you actually saw one of the men that… that tortured Kelly?"

"Yeah, we saw him… And we watched him..." Scotty's eyes had narrowed, goading his superior to just spill it. _You, you knew he was going to be there. You can't not have known. The invitation came through the Department. Every single place we're houseguests is cleared with the Department. And you must have known Kelly'd see him… and how did he know Kelly was going to be there, and oh, this is not good. You'd better explain it to me toot sweet, and the tooter the sweeter._

"Well," his superior was being positively hearty, "that was smart. Good decision."

Anderson was unnerved, and the fact that he was on the right track ought to reassure Scotty, but he wanted so very desperately to be wrong. "Yeah, we watched him…" Scotty panted, dropping to the floor, "…and he watched us… everybody just… watching each other."

In the silence that followed, he pasted on a smile and looked steadily at his superior. _You knew._ He was sure of it now, and he willed the man to understand. _You knew, so why did you send him there?_ he asked silently. _What's the deal? Who told those men that Kelly was going to be there? Why did you release him early? What in the world is going on?_ It was as though there was something he could almost grasp, could see dimly the shape of it, only it was too… too awful, too… as though…

"Alex," his superior said in a tone dripping with concern, "why did you come all the way up to Madrid?_ Really?"_

"Mr. Anderson, I…" Scotty brought the rings together with a clack, hanging onto them with one hand for support, favoring his superior with a hard stare, wishing he could say what he really wanted to: _This stinks. None of what you've told me adds up. Kelly's a great asset to this department and you're doing everything you can to systematically ruin him. Tell me why. Just tell me why. _"It's kinda obvious, isn't it?"

"It is," the man's face was decisive, "to me." He folded his arms across his chest, and spoke firmly. "You came to tell me that..." Scotty waited. "Kelly's had it. For our kind of work, he's useless… can't be depended on."

Scotty's poker face had served him well in life, and he was grateful for it now. He said nothing, waiting, hoping.

Anderson took a few steps towards him, comradely, mentoring. The concerned boss. "Well, I'm not gonna let you down, you hear?"

"All right…" There was hardly any hope anymore, any shred of confidence that this would end well, but Anderson could still salvage this, could still say he'd pull Kelly in, get him the help he needed…

"I'm going to find you another partner." The blue eyes were a little too supportive. "And a good one."

Scotty was not an agent for nothing, and he gave nothing away."Good," he said impassively as his last hope crashed and burned. _So it's true. You are throwing him out like a used paper cup. Writing him off. And the only reason I can think of… _Past the shock, he felt his suspicion grow to near-certainty, opening its maw, gnawing and ugly. But that was _truly _too horrible to contemplate, there was no way even the _Department_ would…

"…As soon," Anderson turned away from him, wiping his hands on a towel, "as this is over."

'This'. The word snagged on Scotty's brain like a barbed dart. 'This', as in 'this mission.' _This mission we're on now. We're on a mission, only nobody told us. A mission to destroy Kelly, so that he'll break and give up the secret that's no secret at all... _"'This,'" he repeated slowly.

"Yeah… this," Anderson looked away, not meeting Scotty's eyes, fussing with the towel, "This… this, _vacation."_ He must have seen something in Scotty's eyes, because he added in a rush, "Well, it wouldn't do to… to break you up now, it'd…" he fumbled visibly for words beneath Scotty's knowing stare, "be bad for him!"

The betrayal was so acute that it actually felt like a physical pain in his turned away, unable to face the man, and slammed his fist into the punching bag, no technique, just lashing out. "Well," he managed to get out, "I certainly want to thank you…" he hit the bag again, swinging awkwardly, wildly. "for making a—helpful—" He rammed into the bag with his shoulder. He had to get out of here before the man noticed he was losing it.

But Anderson, watching his non-technique, just said nervously, "That's pretty good!"

He clung to the veneer of normalcy to the last, even stopping to take a drink of water before he left.

* * *

Scene Sixteen (b)

In the shower, he ran his hands over his face. He'd been willfully blind, hadn't seen it, hadn't wanted to believe it. Anderson had set them up, had set Kelly up. Given him the minimum of care needed to get him back on his feet and then used them both, like prize saps, just to get them back to… to… He pounded the wall in rage and frustration. WHY? Why use Kelly, why use him like _that,_ why use him _up? _Like he hadn't suffered enough? Was this his reward for loyalty to his country, for his strength under torture, to send him back to be broken properly because they hadn't quite smashed him to pieces the first time? "As soon as this is over I'll find you a new partner."_ Yeah, like a new car. Right. You couldn't find a man worth one one-thousandth of Kelly, and you sent him back to be tortured again, to maybe crack up for good_—Scotty reeled at the sheer cold-blooded cruelty of it. And it wasn't even_ necessary!_ There were ways to pass on false information without destroying the best, the finest…

…He was struck with an idea. Yeah, there _were_ ways at that…

…and he'd better hustle, because there wasn't a moment to lose.

* * *

Scene Seventeen

"About time you showed up!"

Dr. Seymour was standing at a row of test-tubes when Scotty walked in. To be honest, he hadn't planned much of a strategy for stealing the formula; his admittedly confused mind had vacillated between knocking the doc out and rifling his file cabinet and pretending to have a seizure and sending the . off to find an M.D. If both of those failed, there'd been a vague thought of threatening the lab techs with his piece. Still, it was one thing to suspect that the formula was fake, and quite another to find the scientist tapping his foot impatiently, crumpled copybook sheet in hand, frowning at him like a favorite student late to an exam. "Uh…" he began.

"Here!" Seymour thrust the paper at Scotty. "Go give it to them, save your partner."

Scotty stared. He ought to grab it and run. Kelly was in danger, and the longer he waited, the worse it became, it was just that—the minute he reached out to take the paper, it would be true...

"Hey," Seymour half-turned and called out to someone he couldn't see, "I thought this cat had been briefed! He knows it's not the McCoy, doesn't he?"

"Yes, yes, he does." Anderson stepped out of the inner office. Scotty looked from one to the other. "Let's not play games, Scotty," his boss said frankly. "Wartime necessitates certain tactics, you know that. Go on. Take it, get out of here. You came by plane, didn't you? If you hurry, you can…"

But he had already snatched the paper and was on his way out the door.

* * *

Scene Eighteen

Pretending to be confident in his disguise, Scotty walked down to the dungeon. He had no memory of the place, no mental map to make out where they were holding Kelly, but with any luck…

…He was in luck. The two minions in historical costume popped up out of nowhere, brandishing guns. His ruse had been believed. "Just tell me one thing," he said, with every appearance of a man defeated, "where'd I go wrong?"

It wasn't the best plan, of course, but Scotty was off his game. His timing was off, everything was off—but at least, he thought with some satisfaction, his judgment was still working. Rule of Thumb #67: Faced with an unknown intruder, minions would always take him to the Big Boss. If the aforementioned B.B. was holding another prisoner, well, then the two prisoners would have a chance to meet. Finally, he thought as they led him down the spiral stone stairs. Finally, this would be over. If only they hadn't started in on Kelly yet…

Sharp metal portcullis, heavy wooden door, half-remembered, and then he was in—

_Oh no, oh no, oh no._

Before him lay Kelly, stretched out on the rack, so tightly he was suspended in mid-air. His worst nightmare, in living color—and, Scotty thought with an irrational, fierce pride, Kelly wasn't making a sound.

"Hey, not _again!" _he snapped exasperatedly, loud enough to carry over to the man on the rack. "Do you guys need a new social director or what?"

Toothpick jumped up from his seat and belted a guard across the mouth. "Fools! Why did you bring him here?"

"Wait a minute, wait, wait…" He couldn't save Kelly just yet, but he could stop this guy being abused. "Wait, don't whip on him. They saw thorough my disguise, they did their job."

"That's been attended to, Mr. Scott. However…"

But he wasn't listening. He moved forward, sickened, to where Kelly lay, coming up against the rack, close enough to touch the stretched, straining body. He tried to assess how bad it was, but his brain wasn't functioning too well. Hyper-aware of the guns trained on them, he could only stand there as Kelly choked out a perky "Hey, that you?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, "how've you been?"

"—Shorter—"

Sick, appalled, he looked on, his limbs heavy. The joke was funny, but he couldn't laugh, not staring at Kelly's torment. Good for Kelly, bravest man in the world, if he was still wisecracking, but Scotty could only look on impotently, unable to release that damned lever, the words sticking in his craw as his friend relived his worst nightmare.

"You!" shouted the man in the wheelchair. _Calling the shots, _his brain automatically catalogued. "This is poorly organized! He makes trouble!" He brushed aside Toothpick's vehement protest. "You promised me a broken man eager to talk!"

Again that irrational flash of pride, buried under a choking, overwhelming sadness. Part of him noted that he should be taking action. It was becoming hard to function.

Toothpick babbled something and called to an aide, "Prepare the spears."

"No, wait!" Scotty snapped out of his miserable trance. What on earth was wrong with him? He should have done this minutes ago, not stood gawking like some innocent. "Listen!" Toothpick shoved him, protesting, but he shoved back. "Let me tell you something—" The guards converged on him. "Wait!" he yelled loud enough to stop them for an instant. Into the momentary lull, he yelled, "I have the process!"

The effect was impressive. Silence fell; the guards' hands fell away. He fumbled in his boot, mumbling, "Went all the way to Madrid and stole this from my own government…" He walked over to the man running the room, and handed him the crumpled sheet of paper.

"He's lying!" came Toothpick's desperate protest.

Scotty looked back at him, pushing through the morass of his own confusion. He'd like nothing better than to shoot him in the stomach. Watch him die, slowly. "Not lying, just check it out." The man unfolded the note as Scotty said quietly, "Figured you guys'd been playin' Stretch'um with my partner long enough…"

"It works!" said Wheelchair, delightedly.

"Course it works," Scotty said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. Over Toothpick's protests of treachery, he strode over to the rack. He couldn't seem to move as fast as he wanted to; everything seemed heavy. "I'll just take my football and go home."

The bosses' haggling voices rose. Ignoring them, he bent over the rack, but froze as sudden dizziness assailed him. The metal helmet was pressing down on his head; for a frightening moment, he thought he would lose consciousness in the stuffy dungeon. He wasted a precious second to pull it off, swiping a hand over his head. He had no delusions as to the tender mercies of these guys if both he and Kelly were out of commission.

Finally, Scotty reached over, grabbed the lever on the vile contraption and released it, hiding his sympathetic flinch as the breath whooshed out of Kelly, urgently fumbling with the catch on the iron band encircling Kelly's wrist. "Get the other wrist off," he instructed the assistant in a low voice, the veneer of top-dog control firmly in place.

"What do you think you are doing?" asked Mr. Toothpick.

Scotty didn't bother hiding his contempt. "What do you mean, what am I doing?" Painfully, Kelly eased himself up, sitting hunched over, rubbing and flexing his wrists. "Take a hike!" His own fingers were stiff as he released the manacle on the ankle nearest him. "I'm taking him home, like you said."

"I said nothing!"

_Just try and stop me._ Ignoring him, Scotty reached for the other leg, but found Kelly had already undone the shackle. So much the better, then. He nearly patted Kelly's ankle, but stopped himself in time, snatching his hand away, short-circuited. As the men's talk flowed over him, he noted, keeping up his impassive mask with an effort, that Kelly seemed to be moving normally. Of course his partner was adept at hiding pain and weakness, especially confronted with enemies, but Scotty could usually tell when he was reasonably okay and when he was faking it.

A gunfight wasn't exactly what he'd wanted, but he was pleased to see Kelly cut down the men who'd done this to him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought, unable to feel sorry for them. They'd done this to Kel, they'd watched and helped, and having everyone dead or unconscious was one insurance against a bullet in the back on their way out of this place.

There was no insurance against Kelly's tendency to self-sacrifice, though. "You're out of line, you know that," said the idiot, sitting on the rack like it was some stupid beach-chair.

"What did _I _do?" Scotty said in his best little-boy tone.

"I was hanging in there," said his ridiculous partner, "I might have made it. Now I'll never know."

_Made it? Made it to a wheelchair, or a padded cell? _He wanted to belt Kelly, truly he did. He settled for saying, "Well, you wanna get back in it? I'll run you down a couple of times, make a basketball player out of ya…"

"You know this is the end of our—our careers, such as they are?" Rising from the rack, Kelly wandered to the door, rattling on. "I was thinking, maybe we oughtta try to go on home, and see about getting ourselves a little restaurant or sumpn', with some Mexican food…"

Scotty walked beside him, dumbstruck as Kelly kept talking, pausing only to kick a man threatening to get up. It wasn't so much that Kelly truly believed that he, Scotty, had stolen secrets for him – although that was pretty stunning – but that Kelly was still planning to remain at his side, even as he believed he'd turned traitor. And the fact that Mr. Red-White-and-Blue would so easily forgive him – in deeds if not in words – made him feel even worse at the inevitable duty to tell Kelly what he knew. "Who did you steal the process from?" Kelly asked, pushing open the door to the dungeon.

"Guy named Seymour, up in the lab." _Go on, tell him._

"Well, I'll tell ya. My backbone forgives ya… and I'm quite sure that my knee-joints forgive you…" Scotty frowned. Now he knew where to use the ointment first. "…but I don't think I ever will, man, not for telling 'em straight out that way."

"Well—" He took his courage in both hands, but it was still hard. "Actually, man, uh… the thing was worthless, that's why Seymour let me steal it, y'see."

Kelly stopped dead. "What are you talking about, worthless?"

"Well, it's worthless. They figured if these guys had tooled up for it, why, it could set their whole metallurgical program back three years, so… Anderson set you up to tell them."

"Wait a minute," Kelly said. Scotty watched as it sank in, saw the sweaty face go slack with betrayal. When he could manage to speak, Kelly actually stumbled over his words inarticulately. "Th—t—uh—the process is—worthless and—" the shocked resignation seeped into his words, "Anderson _wanted_ me to spill it?"

"Yeah." He felt unaccountably ashamed, even though he'd had nothing to do with it. "See, Anderson thought you'd be more convincing if you thought you were protecting a real high-grade secret." He swallowed, "So…"

He couldn't go on, but there was no need. The bitterness in Kelly's next words was palpable. "A worthless secret." He took a shaky breath, then another. "I'd like a nice hot bath." The muscle in Kelly's jaw jumped, and Scotty wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say, and he wanted to reach out to him, but that would probably aggravate his pain, and he wanted to tell him how utterly brave he'd been to withstand the torment, but he was under doctor's orders not to, and he wanted to restore his partner's faith, but that would need a miracle and miracles didn't happen to slightly shopworn spies.

The moment stretched, and Kelly turned, his back-to-normal-against-all-odds tone returning. "Well, I tell ya, I'm gonna take myself to the biggest and the fanciest hotel in Madrid, and order myself a room with a rack."

* * *

Scene Nineteen

"Mr. Scott? Mr. Anderson said you'd be here…"

Walking in a heady daze of having punched his boss out in his own office, his hand throbbing in a pleasant reminder, still warm from the unexpected wonderfulness of his partner's hand patting him on the back as they left Anderson's office, Kelly was feeling pretty damned good about himself, which was probably why he'd walked on a pace or two through the Embassy complex before hearing the polite summons that seemed to have stopped Scotty dead in his tracks.

He turned, and went cold. It was Dr. Sanford, who'd given him most of his therapy sessions. He shrank into himself a little, feeling inferior, inadequate, as though he'd been seen through and found wanting. The satisfying throb in his knuckles gave him courage, though, and he stood straighter...

"...a word with you?"

_It's not me he wants, _Kelly thought, limp with relief. The cool gaze was directed at his partner, not at him.

"Sure, Doc."

Kelly looked at Scotty sharply. Hard upon the heels of the realization that the doctor was talking to his partner came the realization that Scotty had on his most impassive mask - the one he wore when he was close to snapping. Kelly wasn't one for inane questioning about what was wrong, but something sure was, that he knew. "Want me to...?" He made to follow as Scotty fell in step behind the doctor.

"No need, Agent Robinson. This will only take a minute."

Scotty didn't look at him as he muttered some reassurance, and Kelly called out, "I'll just wait here, then, Duke." Feeling extremely relieved that he didn't have to face his one-time therapist again, not to mention feeling a bit of a louse for his gladness at abandoning Scotty to the doctor's tender mercies, Kelly watched as the door to one of the Embassy conference rooms swallowed up the two men and swung shut.

He stood there for a moment, unaccountably nervous._ What's wrong with you? He's a doctor, not a vampire!_

"Hi, Kelly. Are you doing something frightfully important or can a girl chat with you a while?"

He turned to see Carla, one of the secretaries, coming towards him with a winning smile. "And what could be more important than chatting a while with the Crown Jewel of the Embassy?"

Carla giggled, and Kelly straightened his tie, reckoning his afternoon had just taken a turn for the better.

* * *

Scene Nineteen (b)

"Come in, Agent Scott."

Coming in quickly and standing stiffly to attention behind the desk, Scotty opened his mouth to respond, but found he could only nod through the chill that - most irrationally - swept him at the sight of the tall, forbidding figure._ What's wrong with you, man? _he admonished himself sternly. _Kelly gets hurt and you crack up?_

"Please, have a seat."

Feeling silly - why had he remained standing? - Scotty sat in the straight-backed chair. He hoped he wasn't developing a phobia about authority figures. That would be the dumbest thing. Just because Anderson... He snapped back to attention. Mind wandering, too. He had to pull himself together. "Yeah, sorry, Doctor Sanford. So, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Scott, there's been a declassification process," Sanford sat at his desk, "and there's some information which you are now permitted to know. It will be instrumental to getting Mr. Robinson back into the field."

Scotty straightened in his seat, and nodded.

The psychiatrist cleared his throat and looked at a point on the far wall. "You may recall our conversation regarding Agent Robinson's treatment."

Scotty's mouth went dry. He hadn't meant to set Kelly back, really.

"The information I gave you was misleading. It was part of an integrated process aimed at delaying Agent Robinson's recovery."

_Huh? _Scotty stared at the doctor. There was a gap in his understanding, here. "Excuse me, Doc, I'm not getting it."

Sanford fiddled with a pen on the table, then placed it down firmly and looked Scott in the eye. "It was misinformation," he said firmly, "for the good of the mission."

Scotty remained quite still, impassive. "Couldja lay it on me slow, Doc?"

"Agent Scott, you have been made aware of the nature of the mission that you and Agent Robinson were on," Sanford began. "As you know, its success depended upon Robinson being broken by his experiences. We thought that would be accomplished naturally, but we were thwarted by your efforts."

"By my efforts? Thwarted?" It was as though his years in academia had vanished. The meanings of simple words seemed to elude him.

"You were validating his feelings and providing him with… er, care and kindness," the doctor said.

"I stopped when you told me to," Scotty said, confused, unsure.

"Yes, well," said Sanford, "that accomplished the purpose of weakening him." Scotty blinked. "I told you the opposite."

There was a long pause.

"Doctor," Scotty said slowly. "Are you telling me that you _lied_ to me?"

"I deliberately provided you with misinformation for the good of the mission."

"You mean—you told me what I was doing was—was wrong, when it—you told me it was _hurting_ him, when it was _helping_ him?"

"That is essentially correct, yes."

"But…but why—if it was helping him—why would you want to…"

"To stop you doing it."

"To stop me—helping him? Giving him what he needed?" He blinked at the doctor. "You told me it was the _last_ thing he needed. That it would…" and they were back to that again, "hurt him."

"It would have helped him immeasurably, but hurt the future of the nation. Everything you were doing would have built up Agent Robinson, made him strong enough to withstand the torture, which was an outcome the Department wished to—"

"So…" Scotty rubbed his forehead with two fingers, hard. "I wouldn't have hurt Kelly by touching him?"

"No—"

"By being there for him when the nightmares hit?"

"No, you—"

"By knocking some sense into his head when he started in on himself?"

"No, no on all counts, those were the healthiest things you could have done for him. And it was making him stronger, healing him, and that couldn't be tolerated at that moment in time. Now that the mission is over, we naturally need him back in peak condition as soon as possible, which is why we're informing you of this."

Scotty's temples pounded. It wasn't true, it was a misunderstanding, that was all. "You need him back in peak condition. Now you've found he's stronger than you thought."

"Naturally," the psychiatrist nodded. "I can see you understand. We'll also need to reverse the effects of his previous therapy…"

"Say what, Doc?"

"His psychiatric sessions were also aimed at the success of the mission. Naturally, for him to break under torture, we couldn't advise him to do as a civilian would and avoid nervous strain."

"Of course," Scotty said, his face bland.

There must have been something in his expression despite his best efforts, though, for the doctor cleared his throat nervously. "You are soldiers, Agent Scott! I'm sure you can appreciate the need."

"Uh—_huh." _

"During his therapy sessions, we associated his perfectly natural fear with already-present feelings of inadequacy—a temporary measure—and introduced the suggestion that he needed to be more assertive. Push himself a little harder. Not be afraid of threatening situations. As his partner, you need to be aware of that, for future missions—"

"That was why… He'd come back from his therapy sessions wasted. Took me forever to put him back together again." There was something mounting in Scotty, and he wasn't sure what it was, but it was pushed aside for a moment by the image of an already damaged Kelly locked in a room with a man supposed to be helping him, but who made matters so much worse that every time they'd given Kelly back to Scotty he'd been so hurt, so closed off, so vulnerable, that it would take Scotty an hour of jokes, of doing his level best just to cut through the bleak despair, without even being able to touch him, just to make him smile again…

There was a buzzing in his head, and he controlled it with an effort. This couldn't be true, that was all there was to it. These doctors had taken the Hippocratic oath, it was their responsibility to heal. He'd just misunderstood, that was all. That was all. It had to be all. "You're _not_ saying you used his therapy sessions to hurt him."

"Only to delay his recovery a bit," Sanford said urbanely, his tone inviting Scott to sympathize. "The future of the free world depends on that metallurgical process, and if he had been his normal self, we never could have depended on him spilling those secrets."

"Musta stuck in your craw when you did your level best to destroy him and he still didn't break, huh?" The buzzing was back, and he didn't bother quelling it this time.

With a light laugh, Sanford said, "He was certainly stronger than we anticipated. That was what led us to use you as well."

"To _use… me."_

Scott's bland countenance appeared to be lulling the doctor into a sense of security, for he smiled. "To withhold the necessary care. We soon realized," the psychiatrist explained, "that the best way to break him down was to use you to do it. As a professional, I'm sure you understand…"

* * *

Scene Nineteen (c)

Carla smiled excitedly. "Oh, I _adore_ the Zarzuela!"

"That's settled then. When is a busy lady like you free to take in the musical culture of the city?"

"Well, I'm free on…" A crash sounded from inside Sanford's office and the girl gasped. "What was that?"

Kelly looked sharply at the door. That had been the reverberating thud of something heavy falling, almost like… he took a hesitant step forward… Another thud, and then the sound of glass breaking.

He exchanged a glance with the secretary and sprinted towards the door.

By the time he got there, another two secretaries had arrived, standing hesitantly before the translucent door panel. Now he was closer, Kelly could hear grunting, and the unmistakable sounds of a man taking body blows. "Excuse me," he said firmly, shouldering through them and pushing the door open.

It wasn't even a fight.

Scotty had Sanford backed up against the wall, shirt-front fisted in a convulsive grip. The man's eye was starting to swell shut, blood was dribbling from the side of his mouth, and as Kelly watched, Scotty drew back his fist and slugged the doctor for what was obviously not the first time. The man's hands were twitching feebly, in an ineffectual attempt to ward off the savage attack, and Scotty…

…Scotty's face was terrifying. Kelly had never seen him this cold and devoid of humanity, jaw set, eyes flat and dead… "What in the world…?" he called, moving in. "Hey, lay off, man! C'mon, Jack, that's enough!" Another right cross, and this time the doctor slumped, blood pouring from his nose. A secretary screamed. Kelly grabbed Scotty by the shoulder, with no reaction, not even a flicker in the set, murderous expression.. "C'mon, man! That's enough, Dobbsie!" A feral growl, followed with another punch. _"Scotty! _For God's sake! You're going to kill him!"

His partner raised a fist to strike again, and Kelly flung himself against Scotty's chest, grabbing his upraised fist and putting his other arm around his partner's body, awkwardly grappling with him and propelling him away from the doctor, who slumped limply to the floor as soon as he was released. The momentum carried them back up against the desk, and as Scotty's legs hit the wood, lurching backwards and making Kelly reach out a flailing hand so as not to overbalance, his expression flickered, his eyes taking on the familiar cast of the friend Kelly knew, the terrifying stranger receding. "Cool it, man!" Kelly hissed urgently. "What's gotten into you?"

The dark eyes gazed into his face for a disconcerting moment, and then Scotty all but shoved him to the door, manhandling him towards the hallway. Kelly spared a glance behind him at the psychiatrist, startled to feel a strange and incongruous sense of relief at seeing him on the floor. He half-expected security to rush in and detain him, but it appeared that like Anderson, Sanford wasn't going to initiate any kind of disciplinary action—what the hell had the man done to Scotty, to accept that kind of beating as his due?

As the secretaries converged on the doctor, exclaiming, helping him to his feet and into a chair, Kelly was propelled through the outer door, which swung shut behind them.

"Hey, Duke, you gonna explain to me sometime this year what's going on?" he ventured, as Scotty hustled him through the corridors. "Hm?" Nothing. "You know I was making time with Carla. She was this close to saying yes to a date with me, before you decided now was a good time to improve your prizefighting technique, y'know, with a live subject."

Still no response, just more hustling towards the elevator.

"Herman, could you clue me in sometime before 1970? Huh?" Nothing. "Hey, are you there?"

The elevator doors slid shut behind them, and Scotty leaned his head back against the metal wall with an audible _clunk_, closing his eyes.

"Okay," Kelly said, "in the car then. You can brief me in the…"

* * *

Scene Twenty

As it turned out, though, Scotty didn't say a word until they were in their hotel room. As soon as the door closed behind him, he turned to Kelly, almost formally. "Kelly, I let you down," he said, "and I owe you an apology."

Kelly looked up from where he'd collapsed into an armchair. Holding Scotty back from murdering the doctor had started to make his joints ache again. Not a little frustrated, he rapped out, "What are you talking about?"

Scotty stayed in that strange position, standing almost at attention, eyes a little downcast. "The doctor…" he took a deep breath. "Sanford. The Chief of Psychiatry…"

"The guy you just went ten rounds with in ten seconds, I get it. What about him?"

If it wasn't the damnedest thing. Scotty lifted his chin, as though he expected Kelly to deal him a blow. "He used me to set back your recovery."

Kelly stared. "You wanna hang that on me again, because I sure as hell didn't get it the first time."

"I… He…"

"And will you sit down," he snapped tiredly, "you're givin' me a crick in the neck!"

Scotty sat, just dropped into a chair, not even, as Kelly had half-feared he would, coming over to check on Kelly's neck muscles.

For the first time since this mess had started, Kelly dragged himself up out of the morass of his own psyche and looked, really looked, at Scotty. His cheeks were sunken with fatigue, and that was Kelly's fault, but—the dark eyes were haunted, haunted with something Kelly couldn't fathom. He, Kelly, was off his game, that's why he hadn't seen it sooner. He just hoped whatever _this_ was wasn't his doing, too. "Scotty – what's going on?"

Scotty looked like he wanted to run and hide, but appeared to force himself to look up, into Kelly's eyes. "I'm the dumbest sucker ever to come down the pike is what's going on. I made you worse, Kel, instead of helping you. I fell for a dumb trick. That lousy excuse for a doctor, he, he told me not to touch you, he told me to lie to you and pretend I didn't see it whenever you, uh… whenever you were feelin' bad or when it snuck up on ya."

Kelly blinked. "What?" He sat quite still for a moment, trying to take it in. "One more time from the top. What was that, again?"

"Dr. Sanford," Scotty sighed wearily, as though the telling of it alone was a strain, "he came to see me one day when you were in," he spat the word, "_therapy. _He told me to lay off touching you, never to pat you on the back or nuthin'. He said not to admit that you had any right to be upset. He said it would hurt you if I did that. Then just now, he admitted he'd been lying – that I should go back to doing what I'd been doing before, because now their plan failed and you're not," he swallowed, "destroyed, they want you on your feet as quick as possible." Kelly stared, and Scotty's gaze bored into his. "They were deliberately getting me to withhold what I knew you needed, to—to set you back."

It was too implausible. What possible reason…_"Why?"_

"So you wouldn't get better too fast. So you'd still be weakened when Mr. Toothpick took another crack at ya." Scotty took a deep breath. "They say there's one born every minute and now I believe it."

Kelly supposed he should be upset, but instead, the little flare of relief that leapt down the front of his body was so tempting, he wanted to give into it, but he had to be sure… "He… he _told_ you to – to stay away from me?"

"Yeah. He told me to pretend you were A-OK, to pretend I couldn't see how you were feeling. He said if I admitted you had the right to feel bad, I'd be destroying your courage." Scotty's face was at its most impassive, which usually meant he was at his most vulnerable. "And he… He told me that if I didn't keep away, I'd be making you into some kinda sissy. He said if I, if I, y'know, if I helped you after the nightmares and stuff, that I'd make you – uh, maybe not like girls anymore."

Kelly let out an incredulous huff of breath. "You're really not making this up, are you."

Scotty, every muscle still rigid, shook his head. "No, man, he played me like a 45 RPM, hi-fidelity... stereophonic, long-playing..." he clenched his fists, _"…chump." _His eyes were fixed on the floor. "His Master's Voice. In all good record stores. You oughta punch me in the mouth, man. I deserve it." He lifted his chin and steeled himself as though truly expecting violence, but Kelly was preoccupied with something else entirely.

"So it—it wasn't your idea...?"

Scotty's fixed stare faltered. He looked up at Kelly in genuine bewilderment._ "My _idea?"

"I thought it might be, y'know…"

"Why would it be my idea, man—"

Kelly took a deep breath. Either Scotty confirmed it, or he didn't; time to stop living in doubt. "I thought it was… because I disgusted you? Because… I made you sick?"

Scotty's jaw dropped. "_What? _What are you, smokin' dope? Why would I ever think something like that?"

"I thought, y'see…"

"No, no I do _not_ see." The military posture dropped; Scotty was looking into his eyes accusingly – well, at least he'd lost that guilty look, although Accusing Stare wasn't a look he liked on Scotty, either; it usually meant he was due a chewing-out. "Enlighten me, Cicero."

"You weren't…" Kelly muttered before he lost his nerve, "uh… revolted… because of…?"

His partner leaned forward, voice stern. "Because of_ what?"_

"Uh," Kelly said, suddenly feeling silly – it had felt a lot more convincing in the hospital –"you know, because of… what I'd become? A… you know? I figured a real man wouldn't – couldn't bear to touch a _manso_, y'know, a cowar…"

He trailed off at the shocking pain in Scotty's face. No verbal reassurance could have been more complete. "Sorry."

Scotty jumped up from his chair, pacing. "Man oh man, I should get the blue ribbon for prize sap at the county fair. Like it wasn't enough I let them stop me giving you what you needed, turns out I'm responsible for putting dumb ideas in your head, and it's not like it wasn't already stuffed with 'em…"

But Kelly couldn't answer, overwhelming relief making him fall limply backwards in his chair, passing a hand over his slack face. _Dumb ideas. _So Scotty _wasn't_ revolted by him—he'd just been deluded…

"And _no, _you dingbat, let the record show that no, I wasn't 'disgusted' to touch you," Scotty snorted. "Of all the nutty, ridiculous…" Kelly smiled. For some reason, Scotty's tirade was more convincing than a dozen gentle reassurances. "It was stayin' _away_ that was makin' me sick. Seeing you go through those nightmares and leaving you alone, when I knew you needed someone to be with you—Night after night I had to listen when you woke up screaming, and _sit _there…!"

He broke off suddenly, as though he had said too much. The unhappiness radiated from the dark, earnest face; Kelly wondered how on earth he'd missed it before. "I was okay," he said, trying to reassure Scotty.

"No, you were _not_ okay! But it had nothing to do with cowardice, or bravery, or nothin'. They sabotaged your therapy sessions, Anderson tell you that?"

Kelly felt the blood drain from his face. "What?"

Scotty was suddenly kneeling before him, hands on Kelly's knees. "I'm sorry, Kel," he said gently, "but I gotta tell you. Everything you needed, the docs told you the opposite. You were supposed to avoid nervous strain and they told you you wouldn't be a man unless you took risks. You needed time for your nerves to heal and they told you to get right back in the saddle. You were supposed to stay in the hospital and they released you ahead of time, to go get…" He couldn't go on, but he forced himself to. "…you know. You needed to know you were a hero for not breaking, and they told you you were weak for hurting!"

Kelly stared. "They said I was resisting treatment."

The dark hands tightened on Kelly's knees, his friend's face twisting in distress. "Well, I'm doggone glad you did, because it means you had enough sense to tell that the _'treatment' _was hurting you." Scotty shook his head unhappily. "They told you lies, they made you feel small, and you… you're—you were—" He appeared to search for words. "You were Captain Marvel for real, man."

Kelly snorted, embarrassed at Scotty's hyperbole. It certainly wasn't true, but he couldn't deny that it was nice to know Scotty saw him that way. He passed a hand over his eyes for a long moment, breathing deeply. It was a relief to know that the discomfort he'd felt in the sessions was justified, but it seemed far away now. Scotty's distress was more immediate. Finally, he reached out and laid a hand over the dark one on his knee, smiling down at his partner. "I'm all right, Jack."

But Scotty wasn't smiling. "You'd have given your life guarding their phony secret, and what did you get? Every time you went to a therapy session, they were messin' you up. I could tell something was wrong, but I didn't know! _I didn't see it!"_

Scotty's guilt pinged on the periphery of Kelly's consciousness, but was crowded out by something else. "How about that," he said. "Lindy said I'd get it back faster in a hot tub, and I didn't believe her."

His partner sighed. "Well, you always were a little slow, Herman."

"Hey, I take exception to that—"

"Yeah, you take exception, and I'll go clean the sawdust outta my head. Man, I'm no dummy - well, maybe I am - but I know that when someone is healing from that kind of abuse, they need positive touch and reinforcement like a broken leg needs a cast. I _know _that, Jack! But I still let Dr. Frankenstein there tell me that I'd be turning you into some sort of sissy who liked boys!"

Kelly had to smile at that, the newfound discovery that he hadn't lost Scotty's respect making him feel he could pick the whole building up with his bare hands. _"Boys? _Oh, Fred C, have you not noticed, perchance, the pleasure I take in the Deadlier Sex?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was a patsy, all right?"

"Naw, Holmes, don't be so hard on yourself. You just, you know, you'd been clocked over the head, and it scrambled the poor excuse for brains in there more than usual..." He looked seriously at Scotty. "You couldn't hurt me, man. You never could. I know that."

"Did a pretty dandy job of it," muttered Scotty. "Set you back, let you go through the nightmares alone…"

"Hey, Jack, you thought you were helping me. Anyway, you were _there_, that's what really counted," Kelly said with conviction. "'Sides, we've got the rest of our lives to make up for it." He smiled. "I promise I'll have a nightmare tonight if you wanna practice, you know, take a few swings, get back in shape."

It was the wrong thing to say. Scotty pounded a fist into his palm. "Boy oh boy, I'm such a _sap! _A lifetime of knowing stuff, trauma course in the Academy, psych course at university, and it all gets erased by some shrink in a white coat! Just because he told me I'd turn you into a homo, or a coward, or something…"

"Watson, Watson, come on. Elementary. Scare tactics, we've seen those before. And you're not dumb, he just scared you is all. We weren't exactly at our best, you know."

"I guess so." Scotty's face was neutral, but years of reading him told Kelly he was still upset. "But to fall for that dumb, stupid trick! I mean, scientists don't really know why some people are homosexuals. Some experts are even sayin' it might be genetic, you know that? But I still… When he.. I just… I guess I panicked, and, when he talked about not threatening your courage, I guess I…"

Time to put a stop to this. "You know," said Kelly conversationally, "you know some homos. You do. You don't know who they are, because the poor bastards have to hide, but you know what, Melvin? That's just proof. They can be as brave as you and me, and maybe even braver."

The dark eyes looked at him uncomprehending, and Kelly soldiered on. "There was a guy in my unit in Korea. Bravest SOB I ever saw in my life, man, I'm telling you. Only guy never took any time with the bar girls in Seoul, you know? We all thought he was some kind of sky-pilot. Captain found him in one of, you know, _those_ bars. Woulda cashiered him out of the service, man, only he bought it before..." Kelly sighed, shaking it off. I never had another guy at my back I trusted half as much—Till I joined the Department, that is."

Scotty's expression flickered for a moment's surprise, then settled into wry disgust. "Yeah, well, you can put your trust in a lotta chumps, man, sometimes."

"I'll tell you this right now, Dobbsie: I never once regretted putting my trust where it mattered. Not then, and not now."

Scotty blinked.

The silence went on for a long time, and Scotty finally sighed, "I let you down. I'm sorry, Kel."

"Man, you have never let me down." Kelly looked at Scotty earnestly. "This has been murder on you too, hasn't it?"

Scotty made a disgusted gesture. "Not a scratch on me."

"There you _go_ again, thinking I'm _dumb,"_ said Kelly, only half-joking. "I know how _I'd _feel if that happened to _you, _why'd I imagine you'd feel any different? Unless," he quipped, "you've been stringing me along, Eugene, toying with my emotions all this time."

Scotty quirked a smile. "I'm not getting you a diamond ring."

Kelly spread his hands. "Life is full of disappointments. You're not getting out of buying me dinner, though. Pal."

Scotty reached out, clasping Kelly's hands as they came back to rest on his knees. "I'm not – I don't feel about you, y'know, all that dumb coward stuff," he said urgently. "Probably nobody in the world I respect more."

"And you're not a sap," Kelly said easily. "If you are, well, I still trust you more than any other sap of my acquaintance." He let his tone grow a little more serious. "And I'm the one who's got it easier, Captain Marvel. _I _got _my _scars on the outside."

"Yeah... some of 'em, anyway..." The mutter died away. Scotty looked away uncomfortably, casting about, then finally looked at his watch. "Lindy's probably on the terrace already. We gonna keep the lady waiting any longer, or what?"

"Nope," said Kelly, rising without too much difficulty. "Let us paint the town red, my good man." He wouldn't push his partner any more – glass houses, in any case, plus good luck getting Scotty to admit he was anything less than all right. For that matter, neither of them was up to par, yet… But… "Are you going to get dressed?"

"What do you mean?" The affected offense in Scotty's tone brought a sly smile to Kelly's face. "I _am_ dressed."

Kelly cast a jaundiced eye over his suit. "Dressed for company, I mean."

Scotty narrowed his eyes. "Am I to understand that you are disparaging my attire?"

"Well, not if you don't _want_ to understand. I mean, if you prefer to remain willfully blind to the subtle nuances of finer fashion…"

"Oh, and would those subtle nuances include wearing a striped pajama jacket outdoors and calling it fashion? Because, you know…"

No, not up to par yet, but, Kelly thought fondly as his partner accompanied him to the elevator, haranguing him aggrievedly all the while, they would be. Maybe a little wrinkled, in need of a steam-press, but what was that in the grand scheme of things? He was alive and well, Scotty was alive and well, and everything else was just details. They'd iron the wrinkles out, together.

After all, they had all the time in the world.


End file.
